


ghost light.

by AnaArchived



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Artist Reader, Brat, Divorce, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Smoking, Tagging as I go, charlie and reader banter frequently, charlie has an attitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaArchived/pseuds/AnaArchived
Summary: Ghost light: “Before the entire theater is closed for the evening, all lights except for a single, exposed, incandescent bulb are left on stage. For practical purposes, to allow the first person in the next day some light to find the main switches. For superstition, to give the ghosts who inhabit the theater some light to perform by.”Living in New York as a working artist was hard enough. The projects, the lifestyle and your own conflicts had already started piling up but when your best friend and roommate Lydia, an actress in Charlie Barber’s company Exit Ghost, starts meddling with your social life, chaos and intrigue ensue. Charlie Barber manages to not only capture your time and curiosity but your emotions too, pulling you into his web of a world.
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Reader, Charlie Barber/You
Comments: 19
Kudos: 30





	1. lost.

The lights of the theater lifted with a soft glow as the applause died down, the crowd standing from their seats and filing out of the house and into the lobby. Normally you weren’t the type of person to go out on a weeknight, you much preferred the solidarity and comfort of your own home but leave it to your friends to drag you to the closing night showing of this new up and coming play. 

Of course they’d never been more insistent on taking you out than in the recent weeks, claiming you’d been “throwing yourself into work” or “needed a self care day” or even needed to “treat yourself” with how you’ve seemed to nearly drown yourself in deadlines, positively overbearing yourself with work. They were right of course, credit to their concerns. Your schedule was nothing but iced vanilla americano filled mornings, late nights and trying to manage countless projects in between. The lifestyle you lead was intensive and demanding, being a working artist. Crafting 3am paintings to guarantee a steady timeline or distracting yourself with planning a gallery showing, picking up freelance and other commission work here and there if need be, which evidently seemed often in order to make ends meet.

If you were being completely honest though, everything was a distraction but you’d been clear and cautious with your quite limited social endeavors, nothing inherently draining. The whole situation had gotten to the point where the cafe around the corner from your apartment had your order ready, sitting and waiting at the same time daily and you had local takeout places on speed dial. This type of lifestyle was the only outlet you really ever knew, practically second nature to you by now. Contrary to your belief though, your friends weren’t as content with your situation, seeing as they convinced you to this night out. 

Oliver, one of your closest friends and the orchestrator of this night’s shenanigans, called you up to offer a free ticket to a show he had to cover for an article, a show that coincidentally featured your other more melodramatic friend Lydia in the cast. They’d both been unconditionally supportive of you and your career, especially with your recent given habitual tendencies, so it was only fair to support both of their career ventures. He dropped phrases like “hot new director on the rise” and “a show with the flair of the avant-garde” and several others, trying to curb your appeal.

On the other hand though, Lydia had been a bit reclusive with her demanding rehearsal schedule, the director pushing for the company to evolve into some type of Broadway tier level of professionalism which inevitably called for increased rehearsal days in addition to an added week of tech. It left the quaint apartment you shared often lonely but you respected her schedule, texting her when you both had free time since you’d assumed it wouldn’t be that far off from your own personal schedule. 

She always tried to sneak in ways of trying to get you out and about on free days but your schedules just didn’t match with the demands of her insistent director. She wasn't privy to giving too much detail about the show, something about maintaining  _ ‘artistic integrity and suspense’ _ , well that and she’d usually end up passing out on the couch or making a beeline to her room after rehearsals, not leaving much time for small talk. Ironic how they’re both concerned about your schedule and hermit habits when both of their schedules aren’t far off from paralleling your own.

Still, you’d let yourself be coerced into ditching the old paint stained band tees you wore around the house during your work sessions and forced into some socially acceptable attire for this theatrical excursion. For tonight, you donned a fitted black midi dress with nude strappy heels and a denim jacket, accompanied with a simple black clutch and a thin gold pendant necklace that dropped just below your collarbones. Classy but still you, nothing eccentric for tonight. Nevertheless, you had to admit that it was a nice night out, something refreshing to switch up your schedule.

Oliver pulled you out of your thoughts, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder then letting it fall to offer it to you as an invitation to stand. You’d let him guide you out and towards the lobby, idle chatter surrounding you as audience members basked in the after-show glow and bewilderment. He’d dropped your hand to slip his phone out of his pocket, tucking his small notebook and pen under his arm as you both stopped in the corner of the lobby. 

“Hey, Dee said she's still packing up her stuff in the dressing room and we’re free to meet her there if we want. She said that mostly everyone's greeting friends and family here in the lobby,” he glanced up at you and you gave a small nod. 

“You sure we’re allowed back there? I mean we’re not family or company members, you really think they'll just let us backstage?” 

“I mean yeah, and if anything just act like you belong. If you exert confidence, no ones going to question you,” He gave a small laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” He removed his notebook and pen, holding them in his hand with his phone resting on top before making his way out towards the stage door with you close behind, catching it after one of the company members left and just before it shut. You followed his lead as he maneuvered his way throughout the backstage confines of the theater and past doors, trying to keep up. 

As you made your way through the halls, a door swung open just before you, causing you to stop abruptly to avoid any type of damaging contact. A cast member slipped out, muttering some “sorry”s and “didn't see you there”s before making their way past you and out towards the stage door. Oliver proceeded without you, you’d assumed because he hadn’t a clue that you’d almost crashed, navigating his way easily through this labyrinth of a theater. You’d swear he’d watched too many  _ Looney Toons _ segments as a kid. With how his mind runs a mile a minute, Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner must have been his personal influences. 

You stepped towards what you thought was the right direction, through a hall with a couple scattered doors on both the left and right but instead reached the edge of where the wings met the backstage halls. Your curiosity peaked as you stepped casually out towards the stage, taking in the sights of the dimmed LEDs illuminating parts of the stage as the rest of the room was filled with the subdued glow of the house lights, subtly grazing the corners of the set and stage. The empty theater was eerily soothing-the comfort of silence, the depth and ambiance-you started to understand the appeal. It had a sense of solitude and livelihood coexisting within the expansive room, a sense of warmth and vulnerability. 

The feeling of displacement washed over you, knowing you shouldn't be trespassing in their solemn environment. Undeniably, this wasn’t where you were supposed to be but you couldn’t help being caught in a trance with the vastness of the room. Surely you’d get to your intended destination eventually or at the very least, end up finding your way back out but what you weren’t going to admit was the fact that you were-

“Lost?” 

Spinning on your heel to confront the deep resounding voice behind you, you were met with the amber gaze of an exquisitely tall man leaning his shoulder against the doorway you’d just entered through, hands tucked in his pockets as he filled the frame. His face was a trace of stern but with patterns of freckles and moles gracing his skin - from what you could catch as the glow of the theater reached him. His jet black hair was combed neatly back and out of his face with soft curls gently falling over his ears, a coy smirk making its way ever so lightly to the corner of his rose flushed lips.  _ Authority _ . He exhibited an aura of pure  _ command and authority _ but he knew that of course, dressed to the nines in an all black suit paired with a silver watch and all. 

He was attractive, in the full sense of the word, but you wouldn't let that distract you. Gathering your composure by softening the tensed look you unintentionally had on and straightening your posture, you gave him a small polite smile. “What gives you that impression?”

He started effortlessly despite how tense his jaw was set, “Well first off, you haven't a clue as to which direction you need to be heading in, indicates you're not exactly familiar with the layout of the theater.” He paused to take in your appearance, not in a provocative kind of way but more so in an evaluative sense, one as if he was peering into your obvious discomfort. He continued his thought as you shifted your stance near self-consciously. “You’ve also got that post-show glow about you. You know, the dissociative bewilderment of trying to process the piece of art you just witnessed.” 

You scoffed as you slipped your playbill in your purse, the ends slightly curling to fit, “Well, you seem to think quite highly of this.”

He gave your statement no consideration and proceeded with his assessment of you, “And you know, the denim jacket isn't exactly what one would classify as, uh,” He freed one hand and motioned towards you, giving it a subtle lift and drop as an indicator towards your outfit before slipping out of the doorway and moving towards you, “ _ Proper theater attire.”  _ His words were identifiably laced with subtle mockery and displeasement.

That cocky bastard. “A bold statement from someone who hasn't introduced himself yet.”

“Consider me the one in charge of said  _ piece of art,  _ and you’re right, I do very much think highly of  _ my _ show.”

Shit. You’d just antagonized Lydia’s boss. “Ah,” you sighed, modestly shaking your head, “so you’re the hot-shot director seducing my friend with the temptations of the theatre-verse, keeping her out past reasonable hours.” You crossed your arms in a near defensive way, not allowing yourself to be belittled by some up-and-coming egotistical New York director.

“I wouldn’t quite use the term  _ seducing _ ,” He gave a slight shrug as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, seemingly getting comfortable in his stance opposite of you. “And it depends on who your friend is.”

Your brow furrowed as you questioned him, “Shouldn’t you be shaking hands and conversing with  _ your _ eager guests? Or at the very least thanking them for attending the closing night of  _ your _ show?” 

A pause as he stepped closer. Your gaze lifted as he towered over you, a slight blush betraying your annoyance and tinting your cheeks. 

His tone was controlled as he spoke, “Is that what you want?” He glanced down at you before adjusting his watch almost impatiently and adding, “I’m sure you’d much rather appreciate my _ kind gesture _ of offering directions to wherever you’re  _ supposed _ to be.” 

An unintentional silence filled the space as you took in his appearance, noting his strong nose and how his freckles were placed upon his skin like constellations before you could finally gather the composure to make a statement, “Is this how you treat all your first impressions with all the strangers you meet in a backstage corridor?” 

He pursed his lips as if to answer but instead took a moment before giving a slight forced laugh, “Doesn’t usually happen so I don't usually have to worry about it,” He glanced at his watch. “But generally I give great first impressions, if you should know.” 

You gave a small eye roll as he added, “Down the hall and the second door on your right, can’t have you wandering aimlessly around  _ my _ theater now, can we?” His eyes once again dropped to his watch, stating simply, “If you’ll excuse me,  _ I do _ have guests to greet and thank.” He didn't wait for your response as he turned and left, leaving you alone with only the company of your isolated thoughts. 

You’d reluctantly followed his advice, despite not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right, but as it so happened, he was. Before you was a smaller room filled with only the warm lighting cast off from the bulbs around the mirrors and scattered belongings of the actors spread across the countertops and chairs, Lydia and Oliver conversing away as you stepped in. 

Catching sight of you as you made your way gingerly towards the both of them, Lydia squealed before jumping at the chance to wrap her arms around you in a near suffocating hug. 

“She’s alive!” She pulled away, placing her hands on your shoulders, staring proudly with a grin widespread across her expression, “Look at her, a productive member of society, a social butterfly finally free from the cage of her studio.” She gave a small but genuine laugh, “It’s nice to see you out and enjoying yourself, babe.” 

“It’s nice to finally see what's been stealing your hours,” you said simply, “The technical aspects, the acting, it was all honesty stunning. I can see why you guys are relocating to Broadway.”

“What’d you think of the directorial style? I know it's not usually what I go for but the opportunity was honestly too good to pass up.” She dropped her hands and started gathering her loose belongings, glancing up at you, awaiting your response.

“It was..” Directorial style? You thought back to him, the tall raven haired pompous giant that confronted you earlier. How he exhibited power and confidence, his intense gaze, his condescending remarks about  _ ‘proper theater attire’ _ , how you loathed the way he talked down to you, but the words that slipped out said otherwise, “Genius, honestly.” 

As much as you wanted to disregard it, you had to give credit where credit was due. The appeal and artistic sophistication of it all was undeniably there, you could easily see why the piece was earning itself a home on Broadway. The man may be undoubtedly intimidating, but he was a New York director and it is kind of a part of the soul binding contract that comes along with the job, especially at this level of production.

“Awe, I’m glad you think so! You know, I think you two would understand each other, the whole determined, troubled artist bit and all.”  _ Troubled artist? _ “I’d love to introduce you to him soon, I think it’d be good for you.” She smiled as she finished packing up, picking up her phone to glance at her missed notifications. 

Before you could even think to mention your brief, strained encounter with him earlier, Lydia looked up at both you and Oliver, “Speaking of which, he’s calling for a small house meeting in the lobby before we all leave.”

Oliver smiled and started making his way to the door, “Guess we better get you out there then. Can't have you getting in trouble with the boss man, right?”

As you all left the dressing room, you were sure to stay close with them, not wanting to get lost or side tracked like you previously had. Finding the lobby was effortless with Lydia and Oliver as your guide, seeing as they somehow both knew the place like the back of their hand.

Your gaze caught the man from earlier, standing proud when the attention shifted to him as he cleared this throat, “I trust you all had an as successful closing night as I had, I wanted to congratulate you all on tonight's performance and a solid run,” He glanced around the room, amber eyes catching yours as he finished his thought, “The audience seemed to surely enjoy it.” 

He shifted his stance, averting his gaze from yours slyly as he tucked one hand in his pocket and leaving the other out to gesture as he talked, “I’ll have notes for you all later tonight, things to fix before we move on.” 

He commanded the room with his presence, everyone surrounding him being undeniably intrigued by whatever he had to say. You could tell he was used to it being this way, he was effortlessly smooth with how he addressed the room, making sure not to pay too much attention to any one singular person, but rather divide his attention to the entirety of the room at once. 

“As per usual, I hope to see you all for the traditional post-show celebration at Knickerbockers, having fun, ” He gave a genuine laugh, “But not too much fun. We’ve still got work tomorrow.” 

The company responded with murmurs and scattered laughs, all enticed by what he had to say. He smiled widely, dimples returning to his cheeks as he did, seemingly comfortable and at ease with this company. This was like a second home to him, you could easily tell with how he greeted the cast members, shook hands with the techs and laughed with their family members.

You’d been so incredibly lost in thought with your observations about him that you neglected to notice how he’d been making his way over to where you were standing. Lydia tapped your arm lightly, noticing you dissociating. Subconsciously tensing up, you pulled yourself out of your thoughts and looked up at him, subtly acknowledging his change in demeanor from your earlier encounter with him. 

Here, he was relaxed, but he kept a lingering smile, no doubt evident from socializing with his guests. He stood with confidence but remained open to others, giving a sense of comfort in his presence. It was clear he’d been experienced in this type of environment, he had to be, especially in this particular industry but that doesn't make it any less nerve-racking.

“Sorry about that, I had to make my rounds.” He raised his hand to push falling strands of his hair away from his face, hand gliding smoothly through the raven waves. 

“Oh for sure, no worries at all!” Lydia smiled, “This is my director, he’s the one I was telling you about earlier.” She placed her hand on Oliver's shoulder, bringing him out from standing behind you and Lydia, “This is Oliver, he's the one from the article covering our show's relocation to Broadway. I’m not sure if you’ve officially met yet or if he’s only met with the producers for the piece.”

“Only in email correspondence I believe, but it's nice to finally match a face to the name.” He extended out a firm handshake to Oliver, giving a slight nod as he did.

Lydia seemed all too excited for her following statement, “And of course, my artist friend-slash-roommate I’ve mentioned a few times,” Pulling you gently towards her, limiting the distance between you and her director. She’d said your name sweetly, her admiration for you evident in the entirety of her introduction. 

Your heart nearly dropped as you felt him tower over you, not in a menacing way of course, more in an intimidating sense. Lydia made out this glorified concept of you, giving him a brief history of you two and you were unsure if the impression was polished, doubting your own capabilities. You wanted nothing more than to embody the bold girl who stood toe to toe with him earlier but your hand betrayed your intentions, shaking in the slightest from the anxiety starting to fester in your chest, eating away at your confidence. 

He seemed subtly amused, probably from recalling your earlier encounter in contrast to the current one, as he held his large hand out to shake yours, a slight smirk making its way to the corners of his lips, dimples present and all, “Charlie Barber.”


	2. hot-shot director interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! i'm going to do my best to update as i finish and edit chapters. they usually take me about a week to do so with my schedule so as of right now, I don't quite have a set update schedule but they should be uploaded in some sort of timely manner haha. this whole fic is meant to be written as a slow burn of sorts (bc thats all i know how to do lmao) so we've got a little ways to go!
> 
> just a little content warning: this chapter does mention both alcohol and smoking (as being set in a bar and all) so just a heads up about that.
> 
> enjoy!

_cw// alcohol, smoking_

At first glance, the bar lived up to the expectation you’d crafted in your head. The space was dimly lit, only by the tungsten yellow hue of old bar lights, casting shadows along the ambiguous faces of its guests. Vintage posters asymmetrically lined the taupe walls, acting as unconventional backdrops to the conversations floating between groups. The theater company nearly filled the whole of the leather booths, smaller cliques forming to fit each section and soft jazz occupying the room where conversation lacked, with an occasional singer taking the mic.

This wasn't the type of place you’d typically find yourself at, for any occasion, perhaps being that you weren’t a bar type of person in general. This was upscale, emitting a remnant of a classy vintage jazz club type of vibe, something similar to the 60s or so. Not that you were complaining, it was nice but in all honesty, most nights you found yourself calling it a date night with whatever project you had queued up and takeout lying somewhere in the midst of your studio space. 

Truthfully, you wouldn’t normally be inclined to agree to an after party either, but you’d never been to one before and you wouldn’t dare decline an invite from Lydia when Oliver had already decided to call it a night. _Especially_ after how she radiated excitement after hearing Charlie mention the after party in his earlier speech. 

You let your eyes wander across the room, profiling how the night would play out but the only thing you caught was Charlie's gaze, a short one, but _one_ nonetheless. Simple, meaningless. The kind that occurs when you accidentally look at a stranger who so happens to look at you at the same time, the kind that doesn't last for more than a second or two, the _coincidental_ kind. This one with him, however, lasted just a taste longer, but nothing out of sorts. Perhaps you’d been making more out of it than what was there.

The only way you’d be able to get through this night would be with a margarita in hand and Lydia by your side. This wasn’t your crowd and from past experiences, these situations inherently called for at least some small ounce of alcohol in your system to get you to loosen up. Splitting off from Lydia as she started up a convo with some other girls from the company, you made your way to the bar, ordering yourself just a simple margarita, one to get the job done. The bartender was quick about it, just as you’d hoped. Bringing the rim to your lips and taking a small sip, someone’s elbow skimmed your own. 

Beside you stood the last person you anticipated making small talk with this evening, butterflies beginning to flutter in your stomach. _Coffee, cigarette smoke and cinnamon_ . He smelled like freshly ground coffee in the morning, cigarette smoke in the evening and a hint of cinnamon in the most fall like manner. He reminded you of that sense of comfort on an autumn night, the embodiment of warmth. Your annoyance with him must have inhibited your senses at first, otherwise you were sure you’d have noticed this earlier. Then again, you hadn’t been quite _this_ close to him during your past incidents.

Charlie stood next to you, leaning with his elbows on the counter, not bothering to face you quite yet, “Didn’t think you’d end up making it out to the after party with us.”

Determined to keep your gaze forward, you steadied your hand on the edge of your glass with no doubt knowing that if you’d faced him, your nervousness would inevitably blow your cover, “What makes you say that?” 

“Doesn’t seem like your type of crowd is all.” The only indication he’d given your statement any consideration was that he’d shrugged, arm brushing up against yours in doing so. 

“And you know my 'type of crowd'?” You gave into the urge compelling you to peer up at him, still towering over you despite his shortened composure as he rested against the counter’s edge.

He finally turned to face you, leaving one elbow resting on the brim, a small smile navigating its way full and through to his cheeks, “You don’t really seem like the one to spend her late nights partying.”

A scoff. “Yeah, alright grandpa, because this is _one hell of a party_.” You threw up one hand with a feigned excitement, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “Someone alert the local frat and sorority houses, tell them they’ve got some competition this rush season.” You gave a small but sincere laugh, one shockingly that was matched by Mr. Barber himself.

He held his hand up to signal the bartender, ordering just a glass of red wine for himself, “Okay, okay, so it’s not the wildest after party you’ve been to but that doesn’t mean you’ve got the right to insult my age like that. Shit, I’m in my thirties, I’ve still got some years left in me.” 

“Thirties? Hmm,” A small, acknowledging laugh fell from your lips, “And actually, believe it or not, it’s the only after party I’ve been to.” Tapping the glass lightly with your nail, you caught his tension easing, shoulders falling slightly with the small breath he let escape. “You weren’t exactly wrong when you guessed that this wasn’t my scene.”

“But tonight it is?” He looked at you, genuinely curious of the reasoning behind tonight's exception but was left hanging.

“I mean yeah, your lucky night I guess,” Pausing, you took a sip and smiled, “You get the absolute pleasure of enjoying my company this evening.”

There she was, a remnant of the bold girl who stood before him earlier, even if only for a second. You allowed yourself to give into the subtle reflex to smirk, rewarded from the pleasantries exchanged as you slipped out from your seat next to him, taking your glass with you as you made your way back to where you’d left Lydia. Despite your hesitations, you permitted a glance over your shoulder, catching a small smile from him as he shook his head insignificantly to some degree before returning his attention to whatever had preoccupied him at the bar. 

As much as you thought you’d reached some hint of resolution with him, Charlie’s earlier comment about _‘proper theater attire’_ was incessantly eating away at you. You anxiously tugged on the cuffed edges of your denim sleeves when you’d made it back, suddenly insecure about your fashion choices after leaving your spot at the bar counter next to him. No doubt your denim jacket contrasted the attire of the other guests, as they’d been prepared for an evening like this. You’d slipped it off, attempting to get comfortable and draped it over your arm, holding it against your body.

Lydia called you back to reality as she called your name, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes, “So you and Charlie at the bar, huh?”

“What? Oh, uh, I mean yeah,” Your cheeks started to burn with a slight tint, “We talked for a little bit as we ordered our drinks.” You lifted your glass, almost as a statement of proof that you’d been at the bar.

“That's it?” She gave a slight laugh, “Sure looked like more than just casual bar convo. Seemed awfully close for someone just grabbing a glass of wine, don’t you think?”

“Dee, he’s your boss,” Yeah, _her boss_ that you’d insulted earlier. “I was just being friendly, it’s just what you do, is it not?”

“Don’t play me, babe. I saw you do your little flirty smirk and walk.” You couldn’t help but smile as she tried making a mocking expression of what you did, “Dead giveaway. If you didn’t want me to think you were trying to game up my director, you shouldn’t have been so obvious about it.”

“Listen, as much as I love you,” You smiled and nudged her arm, “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Well whether it was intentional or not, I’ve never seen Charlie look at _anyone_ the way he eyed you walking over there.”

“Yeah, he was probably thinking of how to mock me once again or attempt to narrow down the best way to rid me of his theater or something.” Sarcasm practically dripped from your tone. All jokes, mostly. You had no doubt that he’d insist you’d vacate the solidarity of his theater earlier.

“What do you mean? What makes you think he'd want to do that? You two literally just met and from what I saw, it was a pretty standard introduction.”

“Oh _shit_ , I forgot to mention but uh, we kind of met earlier.” 

Lydia gasped and reached to hold your arm, nearly causing you to spill your drink, “Fess up. Now. You owe me.”

You moved her hand off your arm, death grip nearly leaving a mark. “Okay okay, calm down. So, uh, I mean there’s not a whole bunch to spill but before I met up with you and Oli in the dressing room, I got side tracked and maybe a little lost? I ended up accidentally making my way to the stage and you know, it was impressive so I stood for a minute and he caged me in. Stood in the doorway and confronted me, positively defensive and annoyed no doubt.” You bit your lip, apologetically, “And I may or may not have called him a hot-shot director… to his face.”

“And you chose not to mention this, why?” She stared at you, defensively crossing her arms.

Yeah, you should’ve. You shrugged, averting your glance anywhere but looking directly at her. “I mean it just didn't come up and you were so excited and I don't know. I _should’ve_ , I'm sorry Dee, I really am.”

“So when I ‘introduced’ you two?” She threw weak air quotes up when she said _introduced_ , emphasizing her discontent.

“Uh, yeah. We’d already met.” You sighed, “I mean technically you did introduce us, I hadn’t known his name until then so there’s that? If that makes you feel any better.” You gave another slight shrug, overwhelmed with guilt. You’d felt a hand graze your waist, a small pressure shifting your weight and moving you slightly out of the way. 

“Excuse me ladies.” Charlie slipped behind you, having since left his spot cold at the bar and moved through the aisle, returning to the booth he’d inhabited when you’d first arrived. You could’ve sworn you saw some hint of curiosity in his gaze as he moved past you. 

“Casual bar convo _my ass._ ” Lydia snickered and started to make her way towards the sections the rest of the company occupied. She walked towards a half filled booth, the others she was talking with earlier seated there already. 

_Dammit Lydia._ Just your luck. Out of all the places you could have possibly been seated, Lydia deliberately seated you both in the booth directly next to none other than Mr. Charlie Barber, the man of the hour _and_ left you a seat directly in his sightline. 

She leaned in with an undeniably mischievous smirk, “Consider this… _consequences_ for neglecting to tell me about earlier.” You knew she meant well and this was just her way of messing with you but you couldn't help it as your cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

You didn’t dislike the man, quite the opposite in fact, especially after your light conversation at the bar. He intimidated you mostly, seemed to have some type of superiority complex and egotistical manner in which he presented himself the majority of the time. If he wanted to analyze you, well then two could play at that game. You’d assume it's because that's probably all he ever knew or maybe he uses it as a coping mechanism for his own personal life dilemmas, family issues maybe. Or maybe he’d had a rough childhood and used this kind of power play to deflect his real issues and feel as if he had control over his life. 

_Shit._ Somehow you’d let your gaze slip back to him, your brows knit from the confused expression you wore, his unintentionally matching your own, only more subtle. He looked as if he was desperately trying to figure out what made the gears in your head turn so intensely. 

You turned yourself slightly and cursing yourself for staring once again at him, trying to forcefully engage yourself in the conversation at hand at your own table. Lydia caught you and shook her head with a smile playing on her lips. 

_Vegas_. The conversation was about Vegas. Or something of that nature. One of them ended up talking about what you thought was a bachelorette party shenanigan or maybe a birthday celebration? In all honesty, you were only paying half attention, alternating looking at your drink then back to them, maybe at your phone once or twice but making sure to keep enough attention on them to know if your name was mentioned or if there was something slight you’d be able to add to the conversation. There wasn’t. And that was fine, you knew they were all buddy-buddy with each other, you were the obsolete one. 

Somewhere between the Vegas story and some other tale surrounding childhood embarrassments you’d been tapped back into the end of the conversation by Lydia. The two women from earlier excused themselves off to head home for the night, roommates you assumed, leaving you and Dee alone in the booth.

Charlie excused himself too and slipped out from his neighboring booth as they left, making his rounds to tables across the room giving people notes before they called it a night. After a bit of small talk with Dee, trying to wrap your head around whatever the others were saying before they left, Charlie started to head over to your table, as confident and tense as before. He stood at the edge politely, clearly not wanting to intrude on whatever the two of you had been conversing about. 

“Lydia,” He gave a slight nod and smile, letting a small wave of silence fill the air before letting your own name fall off his tongue like honey, “Nice to see you again.”

Lydia gave a subtle glance from you to Charlie, “Of course, your night been alright so far?”

“I’d say so, enjoying the company, and the atmosphere, of course.” Charlie cleared his throat and pulled out his petite black notebook and pen from his pocket, “I have some notes from tonight's performance if you’d like them.”

“Yeah for sure, shoot.” Lydia scooted herself over, seemingly sending a subtle invitation for him to sit at the table, _next to you._ “And please, Charlie, sit down and chill here for a bit. It's after hours, you should be relaxing.” Karma’s a bitch and Lydia’s here to see it through, that’s what you’d get for not telling her of course. 

Charlie took the cue, sliding into the open spot next to you. He looked down at you for a second, searching for some kind of non-verbal indication that doing so was alright. You gave a slight nod and half smile, jumping slightly at the contact of his knee grazing yours under the table, almost like a static shock you’d occasionally feel. His brows furrowed for a split second before disregarding it and proceeded to flip through the pages of his notebook.

“At the top of scene 5, I need you to cheat out a bit more. You’re too closed off from the audience and we’re not receiving the emotion we should be.” He flipped through a couple other pages, pen looking daringly small in his large hand. “Oh, uh, you need to make your quick change _quicker_ , cut it from 45 to close to 25 or 30 if at all possible. I need you ready and waiting to help with the prop removal if need be, Franks been taking his time recently.”

You decided to test your luck, see whether or not any hint of boldness had remained or if it had been fully depleted from earlier. 

“Any notes for me?” A smirk. Not a mocking smirk or a condescending one, a real full borderline smile kind of smirk. _Amused._ Charlie Barber, egotistical New York director, was amused by you and you took pride in that.

His knee bumped yours accidentally once again as he adjusted, a near electric buzz radiating from the point of collision, “I wasn’t aware you were a part of my production. Remind me, your position?” You smiled back, biting the edge of your lip as you prepared a quip for his remark, only to be cut short when Lydia chimed in.

“You know, she's actually looking for a steady job,” Lydia rested her hands together on the table, thumbs twiddling away ever so slightly with a hint of anticipation. She was gearing up for something, you just were unsure as to what kind of plan she’d been masterminding.

You raised your eyebrows in a near defensive kind of way, a confused expression plastered on your face. “I _have_ a steady job.”

She sipped her water, playing with the pawns in her head until they matched up for the attack she was preparing to deliver, “You work freelance and your commissions have been slowing down _and_ you were literally just looking at jobs near us the other day.” _Critical shot._ She knew what game she was playing, _hell_ she probably invented it. “At the cafe and art supply stores down the street from us, if I'm correct. I love ya, but I wouldn’t say you have a steady job right now, hun.” 

Charlie tapped his pen on the table, considering her statement, “Is she now? Well maybe we can have the opportunity to discuss her portfolio and _expertise_ one of these upcoming rehearsal days.”

The rest of the night went without incident, mostly. Charlie stayed in the booth with you and Lydia, leaning back as he basked in the energy of the conversations. You’d talked about the show, past shows he and Dee respectively worked on, a little bit of your work but nothing intensive. You genuinely enjoyed his company, there was never a dull moment in conversation, energy bouncing off of each of you and complementing the others. 

As time passed and others went home, a few joined your booth. Frank, an absolute character, joined in and had the table dying of laughter. He reminisced about his romantic adventures, sometimes letting a little too much information slide but you didn’t give it much consideration. You’d considered the fact that maybe he was borderline drunk but it honestly could’ve just been his personality.

A couple hours in, nearing half til eleven, you nudged Lydia lightly with your elbow, trying to subtly gain her attention. “Hey Dee, I’m feeling a little tired, I think I’m gonna catch a cab or something and head on home.”

She took the signal and started to scoot out of the booth. “Awe, no! I’m sorry babe, I’ll come with you, just give me a moment to say some good byes and gather my stuff then we’ll be on our way, alright?” 

As you followed, your leg shifted and freed itself from its spot against Charlie’s, suddenly lacking the warmth of contact. A brief wave of disappointment washed over you, but you chalked it up to the comfort you’d found in the group, knowing you’d be leaving soon enough. 

Seeing a look of disappointment faintly canvased on Lydia’s expression, you placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “No, Dee, honestly it's fine. This is your night, you should stay and have some fun.”

As quick as it had appeared, the look on her face dropped, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips as she tried to mask her excitement, “You sure?”

“Yeah totally, dont worry about it” You unintentionally gave a small sigh as you grabbed your purse and slid your denim jacket back on. Your anxiety kicked in thinking she’d take the unintentional sigh as a guilt trip and _fuck_ , you hated being guilt tripped. You certainly didn’t want her to feel at blame. In all honesty, you were just tired, the whole night had been more than you’d been accustomed to and it was a little draining. 

“Okay well, stay safe hun, I'll catch you at home?” She couldn’t help but understand, she knew this was considerably much for you and she assumed she’d already received more accommodation than originally intended. She was grateful for that, especially seeing how well you’d adjusted to and amused everyone. You’d unknowingly worked your charm on them, winning over their trust and entertaining them with your quips and sarcasm.

A small nod was all you could manage, “Of course.”

You couldn't help but feel a slight tinge of relief as you exited the bar, but it quickly subsided and was overshadowed by the feeling of despondency. As the night went on, you had felt like you were starting to be assimilated into Lydia’s little clique. Their energies matched your own and made you feel like you’d belonged, making you forget what it felt like to be a stranger for even just a minute. 

The frigid air of the city hit you, reminding you once again of that pestering sensation of isolation as the front door started to fall back into place, the laughter dimming to blackout as it shut. You checked your phone, the screen glowing a soft haze as it read _10:42,_ before clicking it locked once again _._ Not bad timing. Taking a moment to immerse yourself back into the strained locale that was New York, how it had dried your lungs and stung your chest, dragging you from whatever deep reverie you’d simulated for yourself tonight. 

You had the onset of a light headache forming at your temples, but you knew it wasn't from drinking, more likely from the abundance of unprecedented socializing during tonight’s charades. You’d only had enough to make you tired and that mixed with the excitement from tonight, was more than enough to make you want to bundle up under your covers at home, call it a night. 

As you’d stepped to the near edge of the sidewalk to try and flag down a cab, you’d heard your name called from behind you, soft spoken, almost confused. Charlie was behind you, fumbling with something in his hands as he stepped out the large doors. “Heading out?”

“Yeah, I’m just trying to catch a cab home, I don’t live too far from here but I’ve got a feeling it wouldn't be a good situation walking home this late and uh..” You let the end of your sentence drop off, your teeth slightly chattering as the chilled conditions hit you.

You half expected the idle small talk to continue until you’d secured your ride home but a small wave of silence passed between you instead. Charlie cut it short, his statement more of a question, “You were staring at me earlier.” 

“No, I wasn't.” Almost too quick to answer, near defensive.

_Cigarettes._ Charlie slid the box in his jacket pocket, the cigarette resembling more of a toothpick than a full sized one with how large his hands were, “Then what do you call it?” 

You gave a contempt sigh, moving one hand to massage your temple, headache making itself known once again. It’s as if he’d forgotten the simple, but nonetheless sweet banter from earlier, “I'd rather not do this right now, Charlie. _Please_.” 

_A flick and a flame._ He started to light his cigarette, bringing the flame to the end sticking out, nearly mumbling as he tried to give it a light. “Do what?” 

You brought your arms in, almost hugging yourself to try and stay warm, still glancing for any sign of your ride out of here. “The whole hot-shot director interrogation thing again. I’ve had my fill for the evening. From backstage to now, the interminable questioning can’t be good for the headache ensuing.” Whether from nerves or the weather or both, your shoulders gave a slight shake.

Charlie stepped close, the same manner in which he did earlier during your backstage confrontation. Mesmerized by the city lights reflecting off his eyes, you noted the subtle glow catching his features as he spoke, tone lowered, “I didn't think I was interrogating you.”

You gave a fabricated laugh, muttering the next bit, “That’s what they always say, huh.”

He tapped his cigarette away from you, still keeping his focus around the conversation at hand, “Is it?”

At this point you’d only been half paying attention, the thought of getting out of here being all the more pressing of a matter, “What?”

“What they always say?” Genuine curiosity from him.

You turned to him, intrigued as to why he felt the need to carry on this conversation after a night of being indecisively temperamental, “I mean, I don't know. I can’t exactly speak for everyone.”

“Then why did you?” He kept on hand in his coat pocket, getting comfortable in his stance.

“I don't know I-” you shook your head, let your hand catch it, desperately trying to rub the tension away from the consequent migraine, “Charlie, I’m not in the mood to be questioned like I’m taking a pop quiz, I thought that was clear with that. Was I not?”

A pause as he took a drag, smoke falling from his plush lips. Charlie’s face was plagued by a thought of something near irrelevant, neglecting your question, “Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?”

“What?”

“Grab coffee. With me?” He was serious, but then again you’d never heard him deliver a punchline so there was room for error here.

“Charlie it’s nearly 11.” He _was_ dead serious by the sound of it, legitimately asking for your company for more trips around the clock. “And I've got a bit of a migraine right now, so if you’ll excuse me.” You attempted to step out but his plea caught you off guard.

“All the more reason,” He’d finished his cigarette, dropping the end of it to the ground, giving it a slight grounding against the concrete with the heel of his shoe, “Especially in your, uh, given state.”

“And what exactly do you mean by _that_?” Defensive. All thoughts swirling around a defensive tactic, foregoing hailing your carriage home from the ball, for the moment at least.

He slid his now free hand in his pocket, dedicating his undivided attention to you. “You had a little bit to drink tonight and mentioned a migraine _and_ as I recall, I’m not sure you’ve eaten.”

“So what I’m hearing is that _you_ were the one staring” you raised your brows, lips pursed in the slightest as you awaited his response as you shifted to the offensive. _Checkmate._

“No I-... that’s not what it was, I simply observed. Couldn’t help the fact that I _was_ seated next to you a majority of the night.” A flustered Charlie? You thought you’d never see the day. He rocked back on his heels slightly, his uncertainty peeking through his stern demeanor.

“Yeah and here you are getting on my case about the _very few_ glances I caught _of yours_.” A smirk made its way to your expression, enjoying your offensive stance in this implied negotiation. 

He let out a subtle sigh, clearly not enjoying how you paralleled his own conversational points. “You still haven't answered my question” _Deflecting._

A shrug, “You’ve asked several.” 

“Coffee?” He looked nearly impatient, as you had been earlier. “I could honestly use a cup and I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He was genuine but you couldn't help but get one last little jab in before the conversation flipped back into his hand, “You’ve got company here, do you not?”

“Yeah but they’re all drunk and in their own worlds, I wouldn't be surprised if some of them came into rehearsal hungover tomorrow. And besides, half of them already went home anyways” His shoulders started to drop, the tension easing away as he recalled the events from tonight with fondness.

Taking that as a cue that he’d been getting comfortable with you, you’d let your sarcasm carry your tone as you normally would with your quaint but solid circle of friends, “Is it really smart of me to trust a stranger to take me galavanting around New York near midnight?” 

“I’m not a stranger,” He gave a ghost of a smirk, “We met a couple hours ago.”

You considered, he did have a point but you let the conversation halt, letting the anticipation set in before gracing him with your response. “Fine, but you’re paying for half of the fare to wherever we end up going or no deal.”

His dimples returned as he smiled and looked at the ground before returning his gaze back to yours, letting a light laugh escape at your conditions, “Deal.”


	3. americanos & cinnamon rolls.

The city lights flickered and danced through the cab windows, illuminating the peaks of the predominant features belonging to the man seated next to you. You glanced up at him, catching a small smile in return, studying him in the moment.

Charlie was at peace, free from the environment that no doubt only added to the otherwise overbearing weight on his shoulders. He looked so simple, so _normal_. Gone were the intimidating vibes and tense set jaw, what remained was human in all his simplicity, the image of a man trying to prove himself in a world that was constantly asking for more.

It was an odd thing, sitting in the back of a cab with a man you’d just met tonight, inexplicably agreeing to a quest taking you around the city with him, seeking coffee. You indulged him, positively captivated by this _enigma_ of a man, and of course the fact that you were hungry from the social escapades of tonight didn’t help your case. The idea of it all plagued your thoughts. The idea that someone—a stranger you’d only met by chance, _coincidence_ even— undeniably captivated your curiosity, leaving you feeling at ease in his presence, bringing you to the edge of feeling what you thought was true comfort— _almost_. Charlie had worked his charm on you—something you thought near impossible for anyone to achieve before tonight—but what naturally shocked you most was your general content and anticipation for the situation.

He’d since turned away from you, glancing out the window, a form of pensive daze. The highlights from the liveliness outside had shifted to a soft glow, around his silhouette as the shadows overtook him, his elbow resting on the door and chin held by the palm of his hand. His mind was miles away, almost as if he was trying to distract himself from something—someone? That, you weren’t sure.

It was the subtle distancing he’d been unknowingly enforcing, your own curiosity peaking with his lack of detail in destination, “So where are we going? You seem to have a particular destination in mind.” You’d assumed this, the only clue to your query was the fact that he’d spoken to the driver as you’d departed from the bar.

He shifted slightly, pulling his attention from whatever he’d been studying outside and turning to focus on you, leg resting against your own in doing so, “Coffee.” He said it plain and simply, almost as if you were to infer the remaining details.

You gave a soft, encouraging smile before nudging his arm slightly, “Well yeah, but I mean as in where _exactly?_ ”

Charlie chuckled, amused by your bordering insistent remarks, “Are you not fond of surprises?”

A moment of consideration passed, “I don’t like possibly sharing the backseat of a cab with a potential _serial killer_ on his way to murder me, is all.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” The start of a smirk formed at the edge of his lips, fingers tapping against the door as he spoke. He was contemplating something, you could see it in the expression he wore, the gears in his head like a well-oiled machine.

You crossed your legs, leaning towards him as you rested your hands on the purse in your lap, attempting to gain an edge in the conversation while you still could, “I don’t hear you _denying_ it.”

A small hum of consideration passed from him, “Is this how you treat all people who pay for your cab fare?”

You gave an exaggerated gasp and brought your hand to rest against your chest as you tried to lighten the mood, offering some reassurance to him, “Woah, okay slow down there, _sir_. First off, it’s _half_ of the cab fare, and second, no… but I still don’t hear you denying the fact that you might be out to murder me. I _would_ like to notify the proper authorities of my whereabouts before you plot my evident demise, _please_.”

“Since you asked so _nicely_ ,” His smirk was evident now, looking down at you as he persisted, “It would make for a good script.” He jokingly considered the concept you’d proposed. “But to soothe your clearly _overactive_ imagination, no, I’m not here to murder you. I’d fear what Lydia would have to say about it. If she found out I’d murdered her best friend, I’m assuming she wouldn’t take the news light-heartedly.”

“Yeah she wouldn’t be the only one, I’d haunt you as payback.” You smiled as he seemed to drop the dissociative mindset from earlier, relaxing into the atmosphere and conversation. Charlie sat, turned towards you with his shoulders dropped with a slight slouch, evidently content in your presence.

Conversations were easy with Charlie, from what you could tell. Whether it was the general late night vibe or the drinks from earlier or just Charlie himself, it was just _simple_. You’d skipped the awkward small talk, giving you free reign over quips and sarcastic remarks. It would seem he’d thought the same as well, having played into your banter, matching your pleasantries with his own.

The rest of the ride itself was near uneventful though, the sounds of distant honking filling the void of silence passing between the two of you. The cab stopped, pulling in front of a _Dunkin’ Donuts_ , windows reflecting the neon lights and the incandescence of nearby stores.

Charlie was quick to pull out his wallet, paying for the fare and neglecting the opportunity for you to fight his gesture. Before you could protest, he’d given a glance to you, one suggesting a stern _‘no’_ , and you felt obligated to comply with his silent indication. He’d been polite, thanking the driver for an especially late night drive and wishing him a safe drive afterwards.

He was no doubt an absolute gentleman, offering his hand to help you out as he held the door open by resting against it, evidently making it look small in comparison. Delicately placing your hand in his, you stood, holding the side of your dress and clutch in the other. His hand dominated yours as you’d stopped for a moment, looking up at him, catching a softened smile and tired eyes as you’d passed. You’d let a quiet sigh fall from your lips inadvertently before dropping your hand from his, almost _too_ quickly.

You waited patiently for him as he undid the top button of his collared shirt and adjusted his coat, “Didn’t take you for a chain type of coffee guy.”

“Look who’s making assumptions now.” Charlie smiled as he walked with you to the entrance and as anticipated from earlier events, held the door open for you, motioning for you to enter before him.

A near empty store greeted you, filled with only employees and few customers with unsettlingly bold orange walls as you walked in, Charlie right behind you. The vibes were stiff with oddities, 80s rock playing softly in the background, empty tables with mixed matched chairs and just a peculiar sense of unfamiliarity.

_Slim pickings_. Practically what you’d assume for being this late, all the popular flavors were long gone, leaving only the odd ones and any leftovers that failed to make the cut. Charlie placed a hand at the small of your back, peering down at you for a signal of reassurance, one you returned with a small smile, as he led the both of you to the register.

He looked up, surveying the menu before addressing you, “What are you thinking?”

_Honestly?_ Nothing, you were too distracted by the events ensuing at this late of an hour to think properly.

“Well, we came here for coffee,” You felt your stomach grumble a plea for some sort of substance, achingly bothersome from your lack of food from earlier, “But it seems my stomach has other plans and requires something a little more than just caffeine.”

“Hmm, alright.” Charlie stepped away from you, hand leaving your back cold once again as he neared the display case. You’d followed moments after, curious as to the selection before you only to be met with unappealing flavors, all besides one. You rested your finger against the glass, nail tapping lightly as you pointed out towards the tray of few cinnamon rolls.

“Those look kind of good, better than the coconut ones they have on the other tray.” Giving a slight shrug, you stepped back from the glass as Charlie moved past you, motioning in the slight for you to follow him back.

“Two cinnamon rolls, and, a uh,” He looked down at you, expecting a response as you’d met at his side.

“An iced americano please.”

Charlie nodded, “Make that two as well.” Your purse was fighting you, defying your request to open, the latch throwing a fit of denial. By the time you’d managed to wrestle your wallet free, Charlie had pulled out, swiped and put away his card.

The light chime of approval matched the small laugh that slipped from him, paired with an equally lighthearted smirk, “Too slow.”

“You gotta stop doing that.” You did what you could manage to avoid letting your modest annoyance make itself known. Of course, you’d been grateful that he’d even considered the fact but you weren’t some charity case and this _wasn't_ a date. A deal was a deal and you’d intended to hold up your end of the bargain.

“Doing what?” Charlies brows knit from confusion, the small crease reappearing between them as he tilted his head at you.

“Paying for me, we had a deal.”

“I invited you out, did I not?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then don’t worry about it.” _End of conversation._ Charlie reached for the donuts and coffee on the counter, handing you your set before taking his own and walking towards a corner booth. “And besides, you didn’t get it in writing anyways.”

He’d opted for one of those half booths—the kind you’d find against the wall with a cushioned end and a chair end—sliding into the chair and leaving you the comfort of the other side.

Charlie had wrapped the bottom half of his roll with the bag, seeming to want to get a stick free grip as he prepped to devour it. You’d only started to sip your coffee, condensation already dripping around the edges as he took his first bite, nearly inhaling a quarter of it at once.

You fingers tapped against the edge of the table, anxiety starting to gather in the form of restlessness, “So…you smoke?”

He looked up at you, shoulders hunched as he leaned down for a near aggressive bite, “Only when I’m stressed.”

You started reflexively stirring your coffee, one hand around the base, collecting condensation while the other started spinning the straw in lazy circles, ice bumping against the cup’s walls, “What's got you stressed?”

He took a deep breath, one weighted with consideration before he let it go, more of a scoff than a simple exhale, “What doesn’t?”

“That’s fair, especially considering how you _could_ be home getting some rest but instead you’re out here treating me to coffee and donuts.” It was practically instinctive, taking a sip of your coffee to fill the silence of his contemplation.

He hummed in acknowledgement as he took another bite.

Leaning back, you further pressed, “No, but in all seriousness, what specifically?”

He mimicked you, leaning back as he gave a sigh before looking up at the ceiling as if he’d been compiling a list of all his stressors, “Well, uh, Broadway for one. The logistics of the move, the reception of the piece, the preparation-”

You tilted your head, confusion washing over you as he started listing the items he compiled on said list, “Wait, hold up. Don’t you have an assistant or someone to help out with any of this?”

He gave an unconvincing nod, looking down with his hands fidgeting with the wrapper as he spoke. “I have a stage manager.”

“And do they help _manage_ any of this?”

A pause, a hesitation in remark. “Mary Ann has… _other_ things… that occupy her time.” His tone was threaded with what seemed like guilt, or discontent of sorts? Clearly something personal, something you considered further exploring before ultimately deciding to disregard it. It wasn’t your job to pry into his personal life, you barely knew the man.

Despite your reluctance to pry, you leaned forward, your elbows rested on the edge of the table, naturally intrigued by what he had to say. There was something mesmerizing about the way he spoke, brief and direct but undoubtedly genuine. His words weighed with bona fide interest, his stature engaging and present with how he physically reacted to the conversations at hand.

“Okay well how about a _personal_ assistant, someone to help with the little things like organization or notes or _something_?”

Almost to prove your point, Charlie leaned forward, matching your position, mirroring your composure and getting dangerously close with the space the table allowed. With how close he was, you were able to catch emerald flecks in his irises, freckles ever so slightly on his nose and the slight purse of his full lips, “Are you asking for a job?”

A sharp but faint, near inaudible gasp fell from your lips, taken aback by his offhand question. You sat back, leaning against the backing of the booth, crossing your legs as you attempted to create a distance, needing the space to process. “No. What? I’m just trying to make sense of this.”

He folded his arms in front of him, still supported by the table and resting his weight on his elbows as he looked at you, “Lydia mentioned earlier that you _had_ been looking for a job recently, correct?”

“Well, yes, but-”

You could easily tell he was trying to hide a smile, the corner of his mouth slightly turned up as the sentence fell from his lips, “Would be nice, would help alleviate the _stress_ a little bit and let me feel like a _human being_ again. You know, feel alive for once?”

Accepting defeat, you slouched a bit in consideration knowing Charlie would inevitably find a way to keep prodding the question. You certainly empathized with his situation, work stress especially. Not far and few, you knew long nights with tiresome scheduling and demanding hours—hours you’d lost on projects you’d been left unsatisfied by, a feeling of emptiness occupying part of yourself that you’d wished housed comfort and stability. He’d no doubt experienced the same—if not more intensive as you had—professional and renown, overworking himself to the bone.

Sighing, you resigned, “Yeah, I can imagine.” Your fingers tapped lightly against the side of your cup, looking up at him with anticipation for an inaudible sign of resolution.

Instead, he stayed forward, staring at you with intrigue. “So you accept?”

“The job?”

Giving a slight nod, “What else?”

“And it would entail..?”

Charlie sat for a moment, lips pressed together as he pondered a viable answer, “Wouldn’t be grueling, I’d respect your artistic timelines if they seem to conflict.” He paused, running his hand through his soft jet black waves. “You’d take notes, help with scheduling and would take the minor questions that don't necessarily need to be addressed by me.”

“So, the usual.” Removing your hand from the edge of your cup, you flicked it away from you in an attempt to rid the condensation that had dripped during your conversation, attention focusing on that for a split moment.

“Maybe act as an art consult.”

“Art consult?” You froze, hand stuck in mid motion while raising your eyebrows. A hint of interest peeked through your demeanor as you returned to your position of leaning in at the edge of the table.

“Yeah, does that not work for you?” Charlie sat still, only the slow rise and fall of his shoulders evident as he peered at you. His chin resting in the palm of his fist and nose settled on his knuckles, holding something in between his fingers.

“No—I mean yes, it does but dont you already have a team of designers for that?”

“I do, wonderfully talented.” You hadn’t noticed until now that he’d finished his cinnamon roll as he wadded up a napkin to dab the edges of his lips in an effort to rid them of any sugary evidence.

You tore your gaze from his rose tinted lips and brought it back to eye level near immediately, “But?”

He hesitated, letting the napkin fall from his softening grip, “But I have trouble processing some of those aspects and critiquing them to fit the vision. I struggle with being stubborn, sometimes-determined, competitive. Limits me, narrows my focus.”

“So, to keep you in check, is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

You smiled, face beaming with pure delight, “Alright, I accept.”

Charlie faltered, attention fixed on something other than the conversation at hand,“I’m sorry, do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Unravel your cinnamon rolls.” You looked down, self-consciousness flooding over you as you realized what he meant. It was a force of habit, taking the end of a cinnamon roll and unravelling it until you reached the best part—the center. The center was the softest part, not too sweet and perfectly surrounded by the proper amount of cinnamon without it being overbearing. You always saved the best for last and the anticipation built by the prolonging of eating it was certainly unmatched.

Apparently, in the midst of your contractual drafting, you’d started to pick at your own, having not touched it prior to this moment, “Why, is it distracting?”

“No. Yes. A little bit.” Charlie wadded up his wrapper, discarding it to the side before reaching for his iced coffee, leaving a ring of condensation on the table.

“So…” You smirk, unravelling the roll at a slower pace, making direct eye contact with him as you pull off a small section, “You _don’t_ like when I do this?” Charlie gave a meager glare, not daring to break the eye contact and as if to test your willpower.

“You’re twisting my words.”

Bringing a small piece to your lips, you held it there as if to tease, to test Charlie, “And you’re so easily annoyed _Mr. Barber_ , loosen up a bit.”

He sighed and you couldn’t tell if he was amused or simply angered by your games, “You’re testing my patience.”

“You’re making assumptions. _Again_.” You smiled as you wiped your hands. “I’ve got some conditions.”

He stopped, “Conditions? What kind of conditions exactly?”

“Pen. Paper. Hand it over please.” You held your hand out patiently, waiting for him.

“Why?”

“I’m getting it in writing this time.” Charlie took his pen and notebook out from his pocket, placing the pen across the cover as he slid both across the table to you.

You flipped past his notes, finding a spare page in the back where you scrambled to get your thoughts down, your handwriting faltering between normal and cursive with the rush:

  1. _I’m not here for you to only give me busy work._

  2. _Dry cleaning and coffee runs are off the list of requests._




You didn’t want to feel pushy so out of compulsion with a hint of guilt, you scribbled a small smiley face under your requests and signed your name by your artwork.

Noticing the detail, Charlie chuckled, dimples returning to his cheeks with the corners of his eyes crinkling, “Alright, laundry is off limits and you won’t have to worry about coffee runs. I genuinely enjoy having that as a part of my routine. And besides, they’re pretty set in their coffee ways, even negotiated a deal with our usual shop. They get a free slot in our playbill, full page, for a small discount on our usual order.”

“Nice to know you’ve got a caffeine dealer on the ready if I ever need it. Now sign on the dotted line please. This is a _formal_ agreement.”

“Ah yes, in a _Dunkin’_ of all places.” He glanced up at you, taking the pen from your hand and initialed along the uneven mock line you’d drawn, “So you accept?”

“I accept.”

“This calls for celebration then,” Charlie cleared his throat, grasping his cup as he lifted it to cheers towards the new agreement, “To new and exciting opportunities.”

Smiling, you followed, tapping the edge of your cup gently against his so as not to spill, “ _New and exciting opportunities._ ”

—

The remainder of your night had gone swimmingly. You and Charlie hashed out the details of the position, talked about the specific tasks you’d be asked to manage and how it’d work with the company’s move to Broadway. The mocked agreement you'd had him sign sat folded in your wallet, tucked away for safekeeping.

You finally reached your apartment, exhausted from tonight as you attempted to search for your keys in your purse. The jingling taunted you, causing you to pull out and balance a majority of its contents before finding the keys hiding in the corner. You let out a frustrated sigh as you shoved everything back in, struggling a bit as the items refused to cooperate.

“Oh, fuck it. Whatever.” You stopped fussing with it and let the top drape over the spilling contents as you tried unlocking the door, forgetting how temperamental the door itself can be. Ever since you and Lydia moved in, the door always threw a fit, needing a bit of rough-housing to get it to open—usually calling for slamming nearly all your weight against it while shaking the handle a bit, something you really didn’t have the energy for tonight.

The desire to sleep forced you to reconsider, giving you a minor boost of energy, just enough to get the door open and get you inside. You locked up, hanging your keys up on the hook by the entryway, starting to daze off with each step as you made your way towards your room.

Flicking on the light switch, you yawned and let your purse drop to the floor, contents sprawling in the pathway. You dropped your jacket onto the same spot—a problem for future you to deal with. Shorts and a tshirt were calling your name, begging you to free yourself from the confines of your dress and heels, only increasing your urge to sleep but you resigned, abandoning tonight's attire and replacing it with the other.

You let yourself fall back into bed, staring up at the ceiling as you watched the city lights flicker across, mimicking the stars. Physically and mentally you were drained but emotionally you were still attempting to process the incidents from tonight, mind running a mile a minute with a playback montage that unfortunately prevented you from drifting off.

A soft knock at your door brought you out of your daze, Lydia standing in the frame looking disappointedly at the mess you’d dropped on your way in, “You’re home late.”

You stayed still, too worn to even consider shifting your position, “Oh, hey Dee, didn’t realize you’d be up this late.”

“Yeah, the bar closed at midnight and we were all pretty tired anyways.” Lydia smiled and sat on the edge of your resting her weight against one arm as she looked down at you.

You tapped your phone screen, _1:13AM,_ “And you’re up now because…?”

She laughed, a tired one but one to signify her attention, “I can't be concerned for my best friend not being home when she _clearly_ left before me?”

“You can, that's just not the case.” You tilted your head in her direction, giving a faint smile.

“That’s _part of_ the case.”

“Uh huh, and the other part?”

She shrugged, repositioning herself to lay next to you but still leaving a decent amount of space in between as to not disturb your comfort, “Self care kinda night, the whole mile. Candles, bath, music, face masks, the whole shebang. I’m not called for rehearsal tomorrow which means _I_ don't have to get up early, a blessing really.” You could feel her beaming with delight at the mere thought of a day off. “I don't know, I guess I've still got some closing night jitters or something left in my system.”

“Yeah, definitely well deserved. Anything interesting after I left?” The end of your sentence fell off as you yawned, trying your best to make it subtle.

“Not really, the group talked, drank, same as before you left. Charlie went out to smoke and I think called it a night afterwards—didn’t end up coming back in. He _did_ seem a bit exhausted though so I wouldn’t doubt it, man works himself to the bone and then some.”

You rubbed your temple, reminded of the headache that had greeted you earlier in the night when you had your little Charlie confrontation, “Oh, uh, Charlie and I actually went to grab coffee.”

She sat up, almost painstakingly obvious that she’d been offended—maybe because you’d neglected to tell her _again_ about a situation with Charlie. In your defense, you _were_ caught up in the moment with him, most definitely entranced by his charm, “Hold up, coffee? At midnight?”

Nodding lazily, you glanced up at her. _Strike two._ “And donuts—at _Dunkin’_.”

“Mhm, I see,” Dee smirked, coming to the realization of the intimacy of that situation, “Don't be shy, spill. I want to hear all the gross details. Spare absolutely _nothing_.”

You reluctantly forced yourself to sit up, propping yourself up against the headboard like a rag doll, “It’s not like that Dee,”

“Then _what_ is it like?” Her curiosity peaked and there was absolutely no way she was letting you off the hook until you fed into her insistent pestering.

You sighed while running your hand through your hair, recalling the events from earlier as best you could in your sleep-ridden state, “Well, like you said, he went out to smoke. Ended up catching me before I could flag down a ride home—you know, with how the New York transportation system has some kind of vendetta against me and all.”

She nodded, “I’ve heard the tales.”

“We talked for a bit, small talk, nothing serious. Then out of the blue he just… asked me to coffee.”

She squealed, piercing your ears and making you scrunch your nose in return, “ _I knew it_. I fucking _knew it_ wasn’t just meaningless bar convo you two had earlier!”

You held your hands up in defense, trying to get her to settle from this level of excitement at 1am, “Okay no, stop. Don't assume.”

“I saw what I saw.” Lydia shrugged, crossing her arms—the way a child would when saying ‘ _I told you so_ ’ or something similar.

“Do you want to hear about the rest of the evening or not?”

“Alright, sorry, continue _please_.” She grabbed one of your spare pillows, clinging to it as if life depended on it, but also it was Dee, you weren’t surprised at her eagerness to hear all the latest.

You let yourself slide down a bit, pillows supporting your neck and back as you rested your arms lazily on your head, “ _Anyways_ , we shared a cab. He was being cryptic about the whole destination and all so naturally I had to ask if he was on some serial killer type of shit—priorities, of course. We made it to _Dunkin'_ , ordered iced coffee and cinnamon rolls, I asked why he smoked and he offered me a job as an assistant-slash-art consultant type of gig. Now I’m home.” You gave a small shrug, “That’s it, swear.”

“So what, you do his bidding, run his errands?”

The note was etched into your mind like a painting in a museum, rewarding you with a slight smile, “No, actually. I made it explicitly clear that I had my stipulations, laundry and coffee runs were out of the question.”

“So you start when?”

You sighed, uncertain if you were leaving anything out, “I’m assuming Monday.”

“Assuming?”

“ _Shit._ We forgot to exchange contacts.” In your tired haze you’d forgotten nearly the most important aspect, _communication_. Not that you sucked at communication, you spent the whole night with him talking about all sorts of things—you just had trouble focusing at times, especially when being in the company of Charlie and his banter. At least that’s what you thought, it was innocent, all textbook.

“I’ve got his email, don’t worry. Oh! You could go with me Monday—if that's when he wants you to start. We’ll get up early, grab a smoothie, maybe go for a run?” Oh, she was all too excited about getting up at the crack of dawn. One of the major reasons you and Dee worked so well together was the fact that your schedules complemented each other, not mimicked. There was absolutely no way you were getting up earlier than required, you’d made that one of your specialties over the years.

“Dee, as much as I love you, you can enjoy your run and your smoothie. I’ll be here, sleeping in and grabbing a coffee on my way, thank you very much.”

She smiled, “Alright fine, pick-up starts at 11 _sharp_. Charlie does _not_ like when people are late to his rehearsals.”

You gave a hum of approval, mind clouded with only the thought of a sweet and desperately needed sleep,“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Lydia stood, placing the pillow back in its place, giving it a small fluff before she started to walk away. Standing in the doorway, she held the frame for a minute, stopping herself to turn back and glance at you for a second, “So that’s it? Just coffee and donuts?”

“Just coffee and donuts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! thank you so much for reading :)) i just wanted to let you know that i have midterms coming up for my uni classes these next couple weeks so updates may be a bit slower but i'm still working on them


	4. misfortune & mistakes.

If there was a single word to classify your morning under, it’d be  _ ‘unfortunate’ _ . The morning had started quite nicely actually, peaceful. Quiet.  _ Silent _ . No rustling in the apartment, no music, no  _ alarm. _ A pen could drop clear on the other side of the apartment and you'd hear it clear as day in your corner of your humble abode. Only the distant noises of cars honking and birds chirping as they passed kept you company, the rest stray—the sound of your gentle breathing filling the space.

Habitually, you blinked slightly, doing your best to keep your eyes closed as you turned to lay on your back, arms stretching up and above you, not fully realizing how tense set your body was. Sunlight peeked through the blinds, catching small flecks of dust and reflecting with lines of light spanning across your room as you rubbed your eyes in an effort to expedite your awakening. Scrunching your nose as you yawned, you took a moment, reminiscing on the pure oasis of your isolation before getting caught up on the intrusive thoughts begging you to start your morning. The back of your hand rested on the bridge of your nose, covering your eyes in hopes to delay the inevitable. You laid still, contemplating the consequences of waiting idly in bed for the remainder of the day. In its place, another revelation, one with quite negative association, cycled through your thoughts on a fast track. 

_ No alarm.  _

The creeping light blinded you, eyes hesitating to open and inevitably causing you to squint in disapproval. Shifting your hand from its place resting on your nose, you patted the area around you, namely the side of your bed and onwards. It was no doubt searching for the end of the stand by your bed—the spot your phone usually took up residence at the end of the night.  _ Bingo. _ Slowly relaxing with a weighted sigh, you opened your eyes and attempted to adjust to the light before unlocking your phone. In doing so, your attempt to catch the time was replaced by a message, one sent by an Unknown sender—at least at first glance.

**_Unknown_ **

_ 7th Ave B/Q Subway, 11am. _

_ -C. Barber, DIRECTOR, EXIT GHOST _

_ Lydia _ . She must have worked her magic or something and slipped him your number. She hates emailing, something about it ‘not being with the times’ or whatever her excuse may be. Granted, texting  _ was _ easier, more direct, more  _ organized _ —and in all fairness you craved some hint of stability. You yawned again, catching sight of the time as it subsided.  _ 10:38am _ . You must have broken a world record for how many times ‘shit’ could be repeated—your default thought when thrown into a panic—only this time, it sounded as an alarm in your head. 

Much of the morning after that text was a blur. Started with jumping out of bed, not properly acclimated to the morning quite yet and consequently tripping over Friday nights clothes and belongings sprawled across your floor. Yes, it was Monday and yes, you  _ still _ hadn’t cleaned the mess post-social endeavors. Your floor was littered with the discarded outfit, the denim jacket sleeves serving as creeping vines, entangling themselves around your ankles as you made your way to the door. 

The bathroom portion of your routine was less than ideal. All the good towels were gone, only the scratchy tattered ones in the back of the cupboard remained—a product of you and Lydia not having done laundry for the week yet. The shower was ice cold, less than pleasant but enough to pull you from your morning haze. In that moment, your routine felt like a film sequence set at 2x the playback speed but on a lagging computer where the video is moving faster than the audio. You were on autopilot, letting your actions flow as your mind was running a mile a minute trying to process how the day would go. This would  _ technically  _ be your first professional impression with Charlie and the company, and you were already massively behind schedule. 

_ 11:06 _ and you were only  _ now _ putting on your makeup and packing your bag for the day. That consisted of throwing remnants of Friday night’s charades into wherever you could fit, taking the essentials and leaving the strays behind solemnly in their place on your floor. The sound of your phone ringing echoed in your room, disturbing your packing process, especially when the caller ID labeled the source as none other than Charlie, Mr. Unknown texter himself. 

_ Shit, he’s gonna be pissed. _ You picked your phone up, nearly dropping it as you tripped over the maze you’d unintentionally created with your belongings.

“Mr. Barb-, uh, Charlie. Hi!” You rolled your eyes, face burning up from embarrassment.

“Where are you? Nearly 11:10, I’m  _ assuming _ you’re still not here. You did get my message,  _ correct _ ? ” He sounded impatient, positively annoyed at the fact that you had kept him waiting but there was a hint of genuine curiosity and faint concern. It wasn’t in any condescending context either, just a simple question.

You placed your phone to balance between your shoulder and ear in an effort to hold it in place as you struggled to slide on your shoes, “Yeah, no, I’m almost there. I just left a little while ago so I  _ should  _ be there any minute now. Promise.”  _ A blatant lie. _

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You haven’t left your house yet, have you?” He paused and followed with a sigh, “I can hear you clearly struggling with something and that clearly wouldn’t happen if you were walking here.”

“You and your assumptions, I swear.” You could hear a faint echo of his laugh on the other end. You stood up once you had your shoe situation covered, slung your bag over your opposite shoulder while grabbing your phone from its spot at the crook of your neck. “I could have asthma, but you wouldn’t know that, would you.” You couldn’t help but smile at his insisting nature as you grabbed your keys by the door.

“So you haven’t left yet. Were those keys I heard jingling or whatever on your end?”

“Uh, no, sorry. I don’t know what you’re referring to. No keys here.”

He sighed, letting a brief moment of silence pass between the lines, “See you in fifteen?”

“Yeah, fifteen.”

—

Charlie stood leaning against a wall near the steps that led down to the subway, waiting patiently with his hands in his coat pockets. He was easily identifiable, calm and collected in the midst of frantic individuals passing by—that, and the fact that he was  _ taller _ than all of them. Charlie hadn’t caught notice of you, looking off somewhere that wasn’t your direction. You came up and stood beside him but left enough distance to be considered normal and non-invasive.

You mimicked him, putting your hands in your coat pockets and matching his stance as you cleared your throat to get his attention, “Awe, no coffee and donuts Charlie? Hate to say it, but you really did get my hopes up after the other night.” You couldn’t help but smile and nudge his arm playfully, slightly hoping to pull him from whatever was distracting him. 

He barely shifted as you did, “Coffee and donuts are for those  _ on time _ . And seeing that you’re…” He freed his hand from his coat pocket and glanced at his watch, “Nearly thirty minutes past the time I’d called for you to be here, I’d say that negates your qualification for coffee and donuts.” He turned towards you, peering down at you as you tried to hold back a small laugh that was threatening to interrupt the conversation. “You’re lucky I even waited.”

You rolled your eyes at his remark, “Thanks for at least a  _ shred _ of decency, you could have left me to fend for myself out here in  _ cold, brutal New York. _ ” Sarcasm saturated the end of your sentence, a small smile haunting your lips.

“I’m sure you could’ve handled it on your own, you’re a capable young woman. However, I was growing impatient with your tardiness—something I don’t appreciate, by the way—and picked up a coffee for  _ myself _ .” He reached to his opposing side from you, picking up a cup of coffee from the slight lip of a ledge belonging to the wall behind him. He took a sip—an  _ emphasized _ sip, no doubt—and let out a heavy sigh all while making direct eye contact as a smirk played on the corner of his lips. “Shall we go? You’ve already made us…” He glanced at his watch with as much dramatic flair as possible, eyebrows raised and his movements sharp, “now  _ forty-five _ minutes late.”

Shockingly, you were able to keep up with Charlie’s pace on the short trek leading down and to your seats, with ease. Charlie was confident, explicitly defined by his mannerisms. Despite his tall stature, he made sure to keep a pace where you remained by his side, engaging himself in whatever you had to note, or even for him to lead the conversation. Endearingly enough, he wasn’t forceful or demanding of your attention. Your preconceived notions from your first encounter with him had nearly been dismantled. The man you’d stood opposite to before—the one you’d deemed egotistical and near narcissistic—was nothing, if not an absolute gentleman, more or less proved by the post show endeavors concerning coffee and donuts. Charlie spoke with dignity and reassurance, all while leaving room for and encouraging your snide comments and general observations. He was a people person, acclimated to being in the company of others and being respected to a high degree, but not a fearful one. 

Though tall, he was never hunched. While stopping behind those who had been waiting for the subway prior to your arrival, Charlie stood to your side. Not slightly in front or behind, directly to your left as an equal. It was a small gesture of respect, one he may or may not be fully aware of, but you made note. It was a simple symbol of his care towards those he surrounds himself with, making it known they have his attention no matter the setting. He would lean in to hear you better, holding his coffee close to his chest, almost in a protective way—whether protecting it from _ you _ or from others and the general environment, you weren’t sure. 

The only time Charlie wasn’t standing by your side was when you were boarding the car, Charlie shifting to allow you in first. With the rush hour being over, seats were readily available and near plentiful in selection. You chose a pair of seats that were near centered as opposed to lining the side. 

You turn to him before sitting, intending to ask his preference but he beat you to the jist, “You can have the window seat if you’d like, I have no preference.” Nodding with a smile, you did as such, letting a small “thank you” accompany your gesture. 

You got settled and as comfortable as one could, knowing this ride would take at  _ least _ 45 minutes on its own. Charlie did the same, leaning casually against the backing of the seat as he sipped his coffee. His leg rested against yours with a quick mumble of a “Sorry” slipping out the moment it bumped yours. It wasn’t long before both you and Charlie got properly acclimated to the environment, sparking the onset of a conversation, one that led to the simplest of points. 

You laughed, smile infectious as you questioned him, “ _ And _ who signs off their texts with their first initial, last name  _ and _ position at their company?” 

“I do.” Direct and simple, he shrugged, catching the spread of your smile’s contagious nature and matched it with his own, the creases by his eyes returning once again.

You lifted your phone as if for emphasis, “Well duh, seeing as you did that  _ literally  _ this morning when you texted me.” You shook your head in resignation, thinking back at the absurdity of the situation, waking up to that clearly structured text and how he probably had that formatting already prepped and set in his notes app for when he’d need to copy/paste it.

He raised his eyebrows with a tilt of his head, a simple nod of approval and consideration as he shifted a bit to face you about as much as he could with his seat limitation, “Worked though, didn’t it? Thought it was appropriate, it’s professional.”

You mock rolled your eyes, crossing your legs and turning towards him as best you could, “Yeah, I guess but Charlie Barber, I’m going to get you to loosen up and relax if it’s the last thing I do. There’s no need for you to be so uptight all the time.”

Charlie gave a slight hum, a difficult one to label as approving or just generally intrigued, “A dangerous promise to make there, quite beyond the usual contractual duties of an assistant.”

“If you keep it up, I’m  _ only _ going to call you by your full title. You call my name, you’ll get a ‘Yes, _ C. Barber, Director of Exit Ghost’ _ ? Or maybe you ask my opinion on something, ‘Oh,  _ C. Barber, Director of Exit Ghost _ , personally I prefer…’ And so on.”

He threw his hand up in defense, “Alright, alright. I get it. Point across.”

A smirk made its way to your lips as you gave a slight shrug, one fueled with dignity, “What can I say, I go above and beyond.” You laughed at your near snarky confidence and looked up at him, a look of faint amusement from Charlie greeting you back, “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just confused as to why I’m  _ here _ .”

The look on his face fell, replaced with an archaic one you’d see on ancient Greek statues, “You’re my assistant, first day on the job.”

Your confidence faltered, suddenly discouraged by his l;ack of enthusiasm, “Well, yes, I understand that much but I meant it in terms of  _ meeting you _ here. Not that I’m not happy to be here, I just assumed I’d start my day at whatever rehearsal space you’ve booked.” You settled your hands in your lap, trying to delay the inevitable fidgeting you’d be bound to do. Habits would take over as your anxiety started a steady climb, near afraid you’d say the wrong thing and this opportunity would slip from the grasp you had on it.

Charlie gave a reassuring answer, “I needed to go over the agenda and general notes  _ for _ today’s rehearsal.” You nodded slightly, a wave of relief washing over you. Charlie let his shoulders fall, giving only the ghost of a slouch, influencing his posture. He was settling, maybe intentionally as to ease the small ounce of tension the room had just held. 

Though easy to talk to, though comfort in his presence, there was always—from your experiences with him—a bit of a challenge reading him. Charlie’s mind always seemed to be preoccupied with thoughts other than what was at hand. It was similar to the stores at midnight just after Thanksgiving, ending one good thing and  _ immediately _ ready for the next big event but of course, only with a surge of energy. Just from his mannerisms and how he presented himself, his thoughts were methodical. He had to be concerned with how he was presenting himself to others, the constant need for him to be authoritative in any room he walked into.

Sometimes, like when you both were seated in the back of the cab, you caught him dissociating, his mind elsewhere, causing him to lose focus on his surroundings. He was doing it now, gaze locked on something other than what was near, both physically and conversational wise. His features softened, jaw resting as opposed to clenched, brows settled and tensionless, hands resting in his lap with his cup in his grasp. 

He sat still as ever, eyes moving in quick, short paces as if to read invisible lines spanning across the room, barely blinking. Maybe one day he’d let you in on what’s troubling him but you weren’t going to let that aspiration keep you awake at night. You were to be his assistant to help alleviate his stress and concerns, if that so happened to include his personal endeavors then so be it, but that would be for him to determine and you were quite positive that was the least of his priorities at the moment. 

Charlie’s gaze slowly shifted to land on the notebook in your lap, watching you scribble down some notes from what he had mentioned earlier about how he’d like the day to go. You always kept a small sketchbook in your bag, whether for notes or sketches or just generally anything where you’d need to scribble your tangled thoughts down. You always kept at least one pen on hand—one in each standard color, anyways. Those were just basic essentials to you, nothing ever changed that. A small sigh fell from your lips as you finished with the list, turning to look up at Charlie, finding him still glancing at the small book in your hands.

Still, he was elsewhere, clearly not bothered by the fact that you had finished writing and folded the cover back over. You feared being intrusive to his thoughts, not wanting to upset him by pulling him from whatever was preoccupying him at the moment. You placed your hand on his arm, softly calling his name before continuing, “You’re staring again.” 

He pulled in a sharp intake of breath, causing you to jump slightly and pull your hand back, worried you startled him, “I believe it’s called observing.” Charlie blinked fast as he scrunched his brows, but only for a second as he refined his focus, shaking his head in the slightest as if to hasten the fade of the haze.

You smiled a bit for reassurance, both for yourself and for Charlie, before trying to retain the feel of the environment before his blur, “And that helps your case, how?”

He sighed, giving a near lifeless shrug at the tail end of his exhale, “Less of a stalker type of connotation.” His left hand lifted to rub the bridge of his nose, attempting to alleviate some of the stress that had overwhelmed him prior. Ambiguity acted as a parasite to his actions, mixing signals and making it ever so difficult to deconstruct and analyze his behavior.

_ Slow paces _ , “Hmm, I’d beg to differ.” Taking note of his unenthusiastic monotone remark, you slipped your notebook back in your bag, the pens along with it and settling your hands in your lap. You glanced at your phone, noting the ride was near two thirds of the way to your destination.

_ Forced _ . He was forcing this conversation out, overtly trying to get it done and out of the way but he was careless with his responses, “You’re so concerned with the little details. You always need to know every little bit of what’s going on—the destination, the exact time, every little detail has to be laid out for you. There’s no sense of blind trust.” 

“Woah, uh, okay.” You tilted your head slightly, puzzled by his analysis but nonetheless felt inclined to keep it all lighthearted. “Is that a cue for me to start drafting my court case? You know, to sue you for some of those inaccuracies, could qualify as slander in some cases but who knows.” You faintly smiled up at him, nearly laughing at the pure absurdity of what you were saying. In all fairness, you had no idea how the courts or systems worked, you  _ Sparknotes _ ’d the readings when you were in school. 

Testing your luck,  _ attempting _ to break through to him, to  _ reach _ him through whatever fog was clouding his reality, you took a deep breath and scrunched your nose playfully, “Do my lawyers contact your lawyers…or how does this work?” 

_ A mistake. _ Charlie stiffened next to you with a slow but weighted breath. He gave no verbal inclination towards his mood, no warning, no briefing. All that were left were the hints left by the whole of his movements. It came in a series of waves, each more telltale than the last and each all the more concerning. 

_ Anger. _ It started with the clenched jaw, a sign you undoubtedly would have missed had you not glanced up, searching for his response. At first you thought he hadn’t heard you, with all the background noises of your environment possibly masking what you had said, possibly drowning your words out. You’d assumed as such until your suspicion was dismissed by his subtleties. Charlie was still, all except for the gentle shake of the subway car and the steadiness of his breathing, his gaze locked straight ahead. His jaw was tight, the edges emphasized with the applied pressure. His brows were furrowed, scrunched in, a crease forming between as they pulled in with frustration.

_ Anxiety. _ No words spoken after. Your eyes trailed from his hardened features, to his shoulders and down to his cup where his fingers were tapping away at the edge of his cup. Charlies posture was stiff, rigid from the containment of his anger. He sat still, back pressed hard up against the backing of his chair, shoulders back and solidified in place with command. It was a near fearsome sight, one that froze you in place, made you near cower in his presence as you sat still by the window.

The tapping resembled that of a broken clock, one that would reach the 12 at a steady pace, only to fall off the edge in the blink of an eye down to the six. It resembled that of a heartbeat, steady by nature but frantic when provoked. Maybe that's what it was—Charlie was mimicking his own, a small peek into the alarm sounding in his head. 

_ Alone. _ Charlie stayed rigid leaning against the backing, so forceful you thought it best not to provoke him further, fearful the back might snap. With a huff of frustration, he crossed his legs, an indication he’s closed himself off. Not as much as a glance your way. His shoulders were locked in a strict posture, isolating himself in your company, you couldn’t help but feel a flood of guilt wash over you as you analyzed his movements. What he wasn't saying verbally, he was conveying silently in gesture, or lack thereof in some cases. 

_ Stone cold _ . Still as a statue, paying no mind to you or your queries. A polar opposite to your interactions. No questions. No answers. No acknowledgement. Only the deafening silence of retribution in its wake. What chipped away at you was how you were unsure of what you had said—or done—wrong. The mystery left you clueless as to what needed to be corrected, what needed to be mended for the rest of the day to go smoothly. You turned back, glancing out the window, not knowing what else to expect besides the blurred vision of the walls outside.

_ Anything. _ Anything to ease the battle he’d been waging against himself the whole ride. The one you saw the other night, the one that makes him out to be the bad guy in his version of the narrative. You weren't keen on making assumptions, especially about others but there's  _ always _ that nagging voice in your head. Constant badgering and belittling, chipping away at the already fragile glass castles we built for ourselves so surely, there was no doubt he was throwing pebbles at the walls he’s built. You just wanted to alleviate some of his stress, take some of the burden that was weighing on his shoulders and just honestly discard it, toss it away and have it be forgotten. All you wanted was for the simplicity to return, the ease you’d earlier felt.

Charlie groaned, shifting in his seat. You could’ve sworn he’d been mumbling some incoherent thought, but you paid it no mind. It was only moments later, the same.

“What was that for?” You turned towards him, expression full of nothing but concern. Soft and genuine, aiming for comfort and looking fo relief.

“What.”

“The grumble and groan.” You couldn’t catch a win, at best you were peeking over the grave you’d so solidly dug for yourself. “Afraid I’ll win?” You grimace ever so slightly, regretting the words as soon as they’d fallen from your lips. Your hands found their way to a pen in your bag, clicking it anxiously as you sat in the still of the moment.

“That’s the  _ least  _ of my worries at the moment.” From the angle you looked up at him, there was an implied eye roll from him. He kept forward, only the bare minimum of acknowledgement so in all honesty, it was hard to tell with any movement he gave. Even the slightest amount of consideration had you hopeful for a recovery from this mess you’d made.

“ _ What, like it’s hard. _ ” This was mumbled, already discouraged from the embarrassment from earlier.

Charlie whipped his head towards you, peering down at you, scrutinizing your every move with a glance. He kept you still, frozen, not from fear necessarily but the nervousness and anticipation of misstepping once again.

“I’m sorry, do you not know how to read a room? This is not the time to be making blatant and poorly chosen pop-culture references. You’re here for a job. Why don’t you stick to it.” He held still in the moment, assessing it all, taking in the sight of you anxiously fidgeting in his presence. There was a flicker of doubt from him, the glimpse at a promise for redemption. If not for that glance, you would’ve lost any aspiration for reconciliation for the damage you’d onset. It was a small reminder of his fragility, not egotistically per say, but as a generalization as a person. 

He was allowing glimpses past the front he put up, the walls he’d built. No, you weren't denying his confidence or ability to command a room; you were sure that was natural. Instead what you meant was his constant need to be that person, there was no room for error in his book. This is what he was to be if he were to be as successful as he is. Even then, he needed to allow room for flexibility and vulnerability and you were sure that’s not something he’d been entirely used to. In his career path, it was natural to be selfish and perceived as such and he knew people paid no mind to that but he was undoubtedly split by this fact. 

Now, you were near positive that the damage done today had not been fully inflicted by you. You just happened to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, make the wrong move and that inevitably caused the downfall of everything he’d been piling up. From what you could tell, Charlie was the type of person to work on something until it had met its end but by doing so, that meant reorganizing and discarding things that didn’t fit that agenda. He probably knew that too but was too far in to change it now. Slowly, it was chipping away at him. 

As fucked up as it was, there was comfort with his reaction towards you and towards the situation. There was comfort in knowing he wasn’t masking anything, wasn’t deliberately trying to hide from you. There was a sort of duality to his nature—the confident, perceived near egotistical side of him and the troubled, quiet side of him. The side seen today reflected both, a double edged sword. You couldn’t blame him, and you wouldn't but that didn’t mean disregarding your own feelings towards it all. You’d give him time. You’d continue to do your job. All that was left was to hope he’d provide some context to it all eventually.

But then again, a glass shattered is never again what it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! i first off want to just apologize for my lack of activity, midterms happened then mercury hit and my laptop gave out and spent about a week in the shop for repairs. 
> 
> this chapter and the next (posting date tbd) were supposed to be one chapter but it honestly didn't feel right for the two concepts to be paired and squeezed into just one. i decided to split it (for the best, honestly haha) which also delayed this a bit. i promise there will be smut, but i want to cover some things first and it keeps getting pushed back ever so slightly bc i keep splitting concepts (sorry about that!)
> 
> as always, thank you so so much for your support and everything, i truly do appreciate it! :))


	5. quick changes.

It was simple to say the remainder of the ride had been full of silence—that was all that kept you company as the gargoyle of a man remained in his place beside you, guarding whatever it so may be that had been endangered by your earlier conversation. Charlie’s cold shoulder filled you with an insurmountable influx of guilt, holding you against the brink of confliction. Your thoughts were split between wanting to patch up the situation—fully accounting for the fact that you were clueless as to what you had said wrong—and remaining silent as not to inflict further damage. 

With just the sweetest bit of time left on the trek, you distracted yourself just as he had done prior. Hoping to find solace or some resolution to what had been, you attempted to breathe in your surroundings. With a steady breath and release of tension, you shifted your focus to that of your current environment.

Idle chatter from a couple behind you. The gentle shake of the car as you sat still, body fit to the curve of the seating. The tinge of green illuminating the whole of the space, spread and emitted by the aged incandescent light fixtures. The tracks clicking with each second passing by, imitating that of a countdown, ticking away as you neared the end of the journey. 

Not too much after the fact, the car  _ had _ stopped with a slight jolt, making the pens you’d been fidgeting with earlier evidently fall from your bag and onto the floor of the car. You leaned forward, thankful for the slight space in between seating, while holding your bag with one hand and grasping for the pens with the other. With all successfully recovered and returned to their rightful place, you clasped your bag, making sure the same weren’t to occur again, and stood. 

_Collision._ _Coffee. Carelessness._

As you turned, you inadvertently crashed into Charlie, cup of coffee in hand, scowl on his face. Charlie had apparently stood as you had addressed your pen situation, and caught you off guard as you turned towards him. The flimsy cup had been crushed between the two of you, lid popped off, sides concave from impact. The coffee inside had made its way onto both your coats and attire, staining his white button up and leaving a trail of evidence down to the floor.

“ _ Shit. _ ” Charlie let out a frustrated huff, looking down to assess the damage done, arms wide and lifted as he tried to shift around his coat. His shoulders shifted back with his chest broad as he rubbed his temple before sighing, anger evident in his expression.

_ Cause and effect, chain reaction. _

As if you couldn’t embarrass yourself enough, your initial reaction had been to reach out to him and attempt to wipe the coffee away—no napkins, the spill already fully seeped into his white button up. As if on autopilot, you pulled your sleeve to cover your palm, grasping the edge and holding it still by just your fingers. You didn't deign to look up at him, too perpetually embarrassed by what had just occurred, your mind too flooded with anxious thoughts to process your actions as they had so happened. Reflexively, you muttered a plethora of “Sorry”s, those escaping before your mind could catch up, frantic and drenched with concern.

A slight pressure around your wrist had torn your attention away. Looking up ever so slightly, still near hanging your head in shame, your eyes made their way to the source of it. Charlie had his hand around your wrist, fully encompassing it with ease. His grasp was firm but gentle, enough to know it was there but not enough to hurt in any way. Your breath caught in your chest as you glanced up at him, met by a stern look from Charlie as he pushed your hand away from its preoccupation.

He wasn’t mad at you. You didn’t think he was, at least not  _ fully _ , and this was just confirmation. Had he been fully overtaken by his discontent and frustrations, he wouldn't have tolerated you for this long and he wouldn’t have put this much consideration into ease. He simply would keep you out, keep you cold but despite how impersonal this may seem, he was putting forward some of the effort—a fraction of what he would have prior but still a hint nonetheless. He was also the first to break the deafening silence between the two of you.

“Would you knock that off, you’re making a fool of yourself.” Charlie dropped you from his grasp and fastened the lid back on the misshapen cup, intent on throwing it away as soon as you both had stepped out. “What's that supposed to do anyways? You’re clearly only making matters worse.” He set the damaged cup to lean against the seat as best it could, flicking the hand that had been holding it off to the side as if to flick some of the droplets.

“I-” Your thoughts wouldn’t slow down, consequently leaving you speechless. Your best attempt to say something only came out as, “I’m sorry, Char-”

“ _ Mr. Barber _ .” Charlie interrupted you, reaching for his cardigan—one you hadn’t fully known he was wearing under the thick coat he dawned—and started buttoning it to minimize that attention he’d receive from the mess. “ _ Fuck, _ you do realize it was already stained, right? No need to press it in further. Jesus Christ.” The last bit was muttered, almost as if he wished he hadn’t said it, regret dripping of the end of his sentence ever in the slightest.

In the strangest way, Charlie’s little spiel sent a sharp pain to your chest, the anxiety and guilt from earlier flooding back. You could feel the slightest bit of pressure from your nails pressed against your palm where you were gripping your sleeve. Unintentionally, you gave a slight nod, acknowledging you heard him but not necessarily agreeing with his condescending remarks. You would have quipped back, had you had the energy and will to do so, but not while your mind was lapping with thoughts like a speedway. 

Charlie grabbed the cup, mumbling some incoherent thought as he made his ways out the doors and out to the subway platform with you trailing behind. His strides were long, easily so with his tall stature but that inevitably meant you were struggling to keep up, almost catching a jog to attempt to keep up. He chucked the cup so simply, throwing it into a trash can without a stop as he passed, determined to keep towards his destination. 

“I  _ suggest _ you keep up.” He hadn’t even glanced back in the slightest but without a doubt, it was directed at you.

You sighed, forcing yourself to catch up and try to stay at least three steps behind him, purely because you’d wanted to give him some much needed space after the handful of mishaps that had occurred earlier  _ but _ also because it was a struggle to keep up. You’d give him credit, the man was determined, dead set on whatever his focus was in the moment.

And you  _ had _ followed him, out to 42nd Street and to the apparent doors of the theater. He paused, hand frozen on the handle before turning to face you, tip of his nose reddened ever so slightly—whether from just from the chill of the city or his pent up conflict, whatever he’d been stacking so heavily as barriers against the walls he’d put up.

“You know, it’s your fault anyways. Had we been on time and prepped and ready to go, this shit wouldn’t have happened.” His tone was drenched with a modest blend of frustration and sorrow, breaking in the slightest as he reached the end of it.

“I understand that,” You took a deep breath, not wanting to insinuate a further fight, you muttered the rest of your thought under your breath. “Amongst other things. And I already apologized, what more could I do?”

“How about try being on time next time.” Charlie stood, holding the door open, patiently waiting for you to walk in before him—something you hadn’t considered he’d do in the midst of his discontent towards you. 

You nodded, proceeding and glancing back at him as you entered, “ _ Yes, Sir. _ ”

Charlie let you pass, standing still for a moment, processing what he’d just thought he’d heard. He smiled slightly to himself, letting a “ _ Good girl _ ” escape before catching up to you.

—

“So everything is free range?” 

Charlie had led you both to the theater’s costume room, one tucked away past the edges of the wings, backstage and hidden in the corner as to be obscured from the stage's lights. As you both made your way in initially, Charlie mumbled something once again about ‘ _ proper theater attire’ _ —as he would, having a stick up his ass about it all and  _ especially _ so given his current mood. It was the fact that it was the same phrasing as when you’d first met him that bothered you the most. The comment itself more than anything, the fact that it was the only thing that stuck with him since. So insistent of everything by the book, neat and tidy, it was evidently clear that Charlie was determined to maintain a sense of control in his life, no matter the aspect.

He fumbled with his keys, flicking through each one individually until happening upon the right one for this lock. With his back to the door and hand on the handle, the door swung steadily open with him stepping back, flicking on the lights with his free hand, all in one foul swoop.

You stepped in, taken aback by the array of colors and textiles presented at first sight. Before you, a room filled edge to edge, top to bottom with extravagant  _ and _ ordinary pieces. The collection as a whole was haphazard but beautifully acquired and arranged. The left of the room: mens suits and specialty items, stocked top to bottom and categorized by decade, then size and color within each, perfectly coordinated and managed. The center of the room, again stocked full from top to bottom and organized with the same system as previous: womens wear, dresses and casual wear, ending in fantasy wear and fur coats. There were stocked racks residing in between the sections, select props and fabrics on the shelves to your far right—all you’d assumed belonged as set dressings and such for the production. Still, the collection of perfectly curated pieces amazed you, held you still in bewilderment as you scanned each piece. You’d almost forgotten Charlie was behind you— _ almost _ .

Behind you, the jingle of his keys was cut off as he shoved them back in his pocket, “Yeah, but you know, I wouldn’t recommend wearing any type of Renaissance attire.”

“Well now that you told me not to, I just might have to.” You allowed yourself a smile as you walked over to browse the racks, flicking through each individual piece, nearly tempted to pull out something absurd just to mess with Charlie some more. 

The man was in desperate need of some type of buffer, something to help him relax into life outside of the company. Something that existed without the pressure to be this constant unrelenting force. Without the pressure to remain stoic and stern. To just simply be _ , _ without being strangled by expectations of him.

Charlie motioned off somewhere to your right, “There’s a changing divider over in the corner for your privacy.” He had since made his way over to the opposing racks, browsing between both the suit and cardigan sections deciding between the usual casual or Wall-Street casual. 

You’d since made your way over to the divider with what you deemed to be at least somewhat of a cute fit in hand. Charlie was too busy perusing the racks to be bothered with what you’d chosen. It was classy, a red plaid skirt suit set with a simple black satin top under. The blazer, double breasted and cropped, ending at just the perfect spot on your waist and just above where the skirt started. The skirt, fitted, ended just above your mid thigh but still could be deemed appropriate in this type of setting. 

The spilt coffee spared no article, including that of your shoes, leaving your boots just slightly stained and sticky on the tip. You hadn’t picked a replacement pair just yet, simply because you weren’t even sure if you’d needed to find a new pair of shoes or if this all would work out but seeing as it had, you made your way out from behind the divider, folded clothes in hand. 

“So, is this okay to borrow? I promise I can have it dry cleaned and brought back in about a week, at the absolute latest of course.” Stepping out, you gave a small spin, smoothed out your skirt with your free hand and looked up at him for approval. Charlie was perpetually entertained by whatever he’d been stifling through on the racks, giving you only a slim glance before returning his attention back to the selection of cardigans before him. Once again, you were faced with a cold shoulder.

He gave minimal consideration, scoffing and shaking his head in the slightest, “I hardly think that’s appropriate.”

The smile you previously held had dropped, taken aback by his blunt behavior. Your expression shifted into that of a near pleading one, brows pulled together as if tied to a string, shoulders pulled by the same, cowering in the slightest as your confidence plummeted, “Uh, okay well I just thought it looked good—not to mention it was in my size. I thought you said everything was free range?”

He stopped, the hanger in his hand giving a screeching halt against the rack, “Yes but don’t you think it’s a bit  _ flashy _ for this type of environment?”

You took a deep breath, steadying your stance for this small showdown, “I wasn’t aware there was some type of understated dress code.”

“You’re new.”

“Well, I feel quite good about this outfit, actually. Don't you think it’ll reflect back wonderfully on you if your assistant is dressed professionally for her first day on the job?”

He turned, assessing your outfit from head to toe, the room illusionistically darkening around you as you stood still, the very same as if you both were back in that very hallway the night you’d met. He’d crossed one arm over his chest, the other resting above it and balancing on his elbow as he brought a fist to rest solidly against his lips.

“How many times do I have to remind you what  _ proper theatre attire _ is?” Charlie shifted and crossed both his arms, a stern look making its way to his expression as he used his tall stature to his advantage, peering down at you with distaste, “I’d hardly call that  _ professional _ .” 

You shook yourself from your thoughts, crossing your arms while letting them settle just under your breasts as you mirrored him, claiming a power stance of your own to rival what he had going, “Well,  _ I’d hardly  _ call that a proper opinion. What would you call it then?”

“Inappropriate. Amateurish.  _ Distracting _ . Need I go on?”

“Distracting to  _ who _ exactly?” Charlie’s gaze shifted from you to the floor as he rubbed his forehead, giving you no indication of an answer. “Oh, I see. Distracting to  _ you _ ?” You smirked, walking closer, a little pep in your step from this newfound cockiness. “Well well well, Mr. Barber! Have a little respect for your assistant.” You clicked your tongue slyly, raising one eyebrow as you tilted your gaze up to his own.

He stayed still, almost unsure of how to act, “I do respect you.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him, almost in a pouting fashion, “But _not_ my fashion choices apparently. This isn't some weird dress code scenario, is it? Because that _,_ _sir_ , is a straight up deal breaker.”

“That wasn’t my intention, no.”

“Hmm, that’s really interesting because that  _ seems _ to be what you’re getting at.” You’d rendered Charlie speechless. His posture rigid, his stance stoic, he couldn’t be further from wanting to engage in whatever this so may be. He was at a loss, you’d cornered him.  _ Check and mate. _

You laughed it off, walking towards the table to fit your neatly folded stack of clothes into your bag, “Relax Barber, I’m just messing with you. I could care less about what you’d thought of my outfit. Trust me, I’m grateful for you letting me borrow it but if it  _ really _ bothered you or you  _ really _ thought it ‘inappropriate’ for here, I’ll change back into my coffee stained clothes. I’ve worn worse in my studio before, doesn’t bother me.”

“No, you’re uh, fine. It’s fine. I mean, you can wear it, I guess we’ll have to make do.” He turned away, directing his attention elsewhere with a suppressed sigh, somewhere other than you.

“Glad to hear it.” You smiled and focused on trying to fit each article of what you’d previously worn into your small tote bag. You’d figured your sketchbook would have to come out, that would have to be something you’d carried.

Charlie had apparently in the meantime decided on a casual navy blue sweater, and had been attempting to remove his own stained attire, accidentally bumping into you and knocking you into the table where you had been organizing your belongings.

“Excuse me.” Charlie faltered, his sweater stuck around his neck as you turned to face him. 

You laughed, decidedly wanting to see just how far you could push his buttons, “Um, I don’t think so. Not with  _ that _ attitude.”

He stopped, puzzled by your comment, “What?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to be a little nicer every once in a while.” You glanced from the sweater fiasco then back up to Charlie, searching for some hint of an apologetic tone from him.

“I am nice.”

“Okay, yeah. Says the attitude you gave me on the way here.” Leaning against the edge of the table, you placed your palms against the tabletop, patiently waiting, “Do you, uh, need help there mister?” 

“I have it under control.” He  _ did not _ in fact appear to have it under control by any means. 

“You sure about that?” Crossing your arms with a smirk, you heard Charlie groan.

“Fine.” He’d relaxed and moved to switch positions with you, sitting on the edge of the table to help with the height difference between the two of you.

“Can I get a  _ ‘please’ _ with that?”

“Don’t push your luck, kid.”

You stifled a small laugh, masking it with a faint smile as you tried to undo the top button, the string of his cardigan latched around it and twisted, evidently preventing him from getting the cardigan up and over his head. The string was stubborn, like Charlie, but it wasn’t helping that he was fidgeting with his watch as you tried to unlatch it. 

“Um, could you please sit still or something, it's hard to get it undone. And I, uh, need to get a little closer, it's hard to get the angle right with this string and I kind of don’t wanna strangle you trying to get it undone. Would be a terrible first day impression.” You looked up at him, hoping the punchline would invoke some hint of emotion from him.

Charlie sighed as he adjusted, leaning forward and shifting his legs so they were on either side of you, allowing you to get as close as you’d needed to get the button unlatched. You took in a deep breath, keeping your head down as you tried to untangle the string, ultimately deciding that the best course of action would be to unbutton the shirt to pull the string around the button. 

“What are you doing?”

“Unbuttoning your shirt.”

“And why would you need to do that.”

You looked up at him, hands still trying to get the button undone and the string off without tearing the rest of the sweater, “Uh, it’s latched under your shirt. It must have happened when you put it on this morning, I’m just trying to get this undone.”

“Can you at least hurry up with it, I do have a rehearsal to get to.”

You stopped and let your grasp on his shirt and cardigan loosen, “Okay first off,  _ we _ have a rehearsal to get to, one that you moved back apparently. And second, I don't  _ have _ to help you. I was trying to be nice, trying to make a good first day impression and  _ trying _ to make up for whatever it is I did wrong earlier since you  _ clearly _ have some issues of your own that  _ you _ need to work out. I’ve been patient, I’ve tried by best to deal with your weird ass temperaments—and I think I’ve done a fine job doing so—but all you’ve done is given me a cold shoulder to every little move I make and it's  _ frustrating _ to say the very least. I really thi-” 

“You make a lot of hand gestures when you speak, you know that right? Especially when your thoughts are all piled up.” Charlie’s voice was low, slightly raspy, as if he hadn’t intended on saying anything. 

You hadn’t noticed though, you’d always been in too narrow of a mindset and too focused on whatever thoughts were running the track in the moment. A small smile played on Charlie’s lips. He was  _ amused _ at your antics, not apologetic, not sympathetic, but purely  _ amused _ . 

Despite wanting to figure out whatever  _ this _ weird dynamic was, despite  _ wanting _ to come to some sort of resolution from the events of today, the best course of action was to focus on your job and  _ solely _ on your job for the time being. You stepped back from Charlie, out from where you were standing in between his legs and picked your bag up along with your sketchbook and shoes.

You took a deep breath as you made your way over to the door, pursing your lips together as you leaned your back against it, “Thank you for the clothes. I’ll, uh, see you out there once you’re done. Thanks again.”

As you made your way out the door, Charlie sat still, attempting to process what had just occurred. He’d been so intent on shutting you out, on making you nearly regret the snarky remark about the  _ lawyer thing _ that he’d completely thrown out and shred of human decency he possessed. His cardigan remained wadded around his neck where you last left it, afraid to even shift in the slightest all your hard work attempting to free him from the strangled grasp of the latched string. 

Charlie was washed over with criminality, a sense that  _ he  _ had wronged  _ you _ , a sense that he’d turned away an opportunity to allow himself to pull out of this rut he’d dug for himself and he did think that you played a part in it. His own selfishness—his fatal flaw, the pinnacle of his  _ villain _ origin story—blinding him to allowing others in, blinding him to what  _ could _ be after the mess of everything in his life right now. You’d been such a breath of fresh air in the recent days, something so soothing to encounter in the times that he did and  _ you’d left him here _ , cardigan around his neck, reeking of self-absorption. 

_ No. _ Charlie had it drilled in his mind that he’d have to focus on the company, focus on what he  _ could _ control and anything outside of that bubble would simply cease to maintain any shred of importance it may hold. He was a director, it was his job to control things and a sign of faltering would be a sign of weakness, a sign of incapability and that wasn’t something Charlie was known for. He simply couldn’t afford that. He couldn’t afford to let another ‘ _ good girl _ ’ out. He couldn’t afford to let you slip between his legs again or take care of him, delicate and ever so careful. Charlie couldn’t be vulnerable. To him, vulnerability ultimately meant getting himself stuck in a rut, and such that things would get messy again. He just wasn’t ready for that with what he had going on outside the company. 

So he’d undo the button on his own, he’d run the rehearsal as he normally would. He’d keep it professional—there was no reason as to why he wouldn’t do so. It wasn’t that he disliked you, that wasn’t the case at all. It was just simply that he needed everything tidy, organized, and purely  _ structured _ —and you were a wildcard, new and yet to be understood.

—

You’d left Charlie with his own thoughts back in the costume room, making your way over to the house seating to find a spot to occupy during the rehearsal. Center section, third row, one spot to the right of the center seat. A seat close enough to view the whole span of the stage without the glare of the LEDs, a seat far enough from the lip of the apron to where you could still take adequate notes while allowing Charlie—or really any of the company members—enough room to work without interfering with their flow. After all, this was your first day and you hadn’t been able to read their flow outside of what you’d seen at the bar the night you attended their show.

The cast and crew had already begun to file into the house, taking seats in the front row and gathering against the front of the stage apron. You slipped on your shoes, grabbed your sketchbook with a pen clipped onto the spiral and made your way to the front, laying your head on Lydia’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Dee.”

She smiled and kissed the top of your head, “Hey babe, how’s your first day going so far? Get some alone time with the boss man?” Her tone was flirty, one you couldn't help but roll your eyes to.

“Okay, woah, it’s weird when you say it like that, and unfortunately yeah I have. Longest morning of my life.”

She lifted your head up and off her shoulder as she turned to you, “Unfortunately? You gonna tell me about it?” 

You opened your mouth to respond, only to be cut off by Charlie grabbing the attention of the room. This must be the company meeting you’ve heard Lydia mention a couple times, the one he always has before the start of the day for agendas and all.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you later. It’s looking like he’d want us to take our seats.” You smiled at her, turning to head back to your seat, only to be held back. Charlie had placed his hand on your shoulder, having found a seat on the edge by where you were standing.

“I’d like you to stay up here by me, actually.” He held no smile, no frown, just an archaic impression of an expression. You nodded, holding your sketchbook to your chest as you stood by him.

Charlie slipped off the edge of the stage and stood at his full stature next to you, moving his hand from your shoulder to the middle of your back. He cleared his throat, grabbing the attention of the company before introducing you.

“I’m sure you’ve all exchanged pleasantries and all or have at least either seen her just before we called the meeting or at the bar after closing night. She’ll be our new assistant director, she’ll be helping oversee some aspects of the show as I work on staging with you all and helping me balance out my time during rehearsals. She’ll be working closely with me as well as our stage manager and tech department heads but feel free to ask her about notes you may have missed or any minor questions you may have.” Charlie paused, looking for approval from the nods he caught across the room. “She’ll be staying around for quite a while so I suggest getting comfortable referring to her when need be and getting to know her.”

He looked down at you, giving you a small nod to indicate your lead to take a seat before he continued on, “Alright, top of Act Two. Frank, Beth, you both are starting from left.” 

When Charlie wasn’t up on stage directing, he was to your left, seated centered, giving you notes to write down. He occasionally asked your opinion on the lighting or the colors of the set conflicting with costumes but nothing major. Most of your time was spent watching Charlie get in tune with his art, watching him move so effortlessly through the motions, seamlessly transitioning from enthusiastically focused about his work to methodically stoic as he processed what was before him. He turned back to you and called for a lunch break, gathering his belongings and heading back to his office without a word.

—

_ A soft knock on Charlie's open door.  _

“Uh, hey.” You walked in slowly, coffee in hand, looking from Charlie down to whatever he was so intently focused on. He was writing, scribbling notes for the next act, most certainly fixing his agenda for the call after lunch.

He gave no consideration as you stood in front of his desk, too entertained by what was before him. He did however, glance at his watch for the briefest moment, “Glad to see you can be _ on time _ for once.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good to know you have the ability to do so.” From what you could tell, with his head tilted down, he raised his brows at the tail end of his remark.

A beat of silence fell between you both as you tried to figure your phrasing, taking a deep breath, “I felt bad… about earlier—the whole coffee spill, being late and all and my lack of regard for whatever it may be that you’re going through right now.” You paused, looking for a reaction but once again met with none. “Though, if I may, I respect myself enough to not fully take responsibility for the scenario.” 

You stepped forward, seating yourself in the chair directly in front of where he currently held his attention. You held the coffee still in your lap with both hands, perched on the edge of your seat, “I don’t think it's entirely my fault and it’s not entirely fair, in your case, to blame me. I didn’t know, still dont. Yes, I feel terrible for doing so even though I’m not quite sure what it is that I said wrong. I-”   


He dropped his pen, sitting back in his seat as he peered at you, glance narrow while running his hand through his hair, “I’m sorry, is there a punchline or main point to your rambling?”

You bit your lip, attempting to hide your discontent with how he’d interrupted you. You wouldn’t let his ill temperament get the best of yours, “I  _ respect _ your frustrations, but I feel it's unfair to receive a cold shoulder from you for the entirety of today—and quite honestly, for however long you feel like doing so—without context to it all. However, I bring this,” You placed the coffee on his desk, careful to not let it drip or spill as you slid it closer to him. “As a peace offering. I think it's important to recognize our differences—whatever they so may be—and continue to foster a healthy work relationship.”

He hesitated, switching his attention from your peace offering, back to you with skepticism veiled over his words, “I only drink coffee wit-”

“With half milk and two sugars, hot. I know. Lydia told me.” Charlie gave a hum of consideration as he picked the cup up, catching a whiff of it as he did so, looking at you with that same apathetic energy. You smiled in return, crossing your legs as you rested your hands in your lap, decidedly pleased with how it seemed to be going. Sufficiently opposite to your earlier interaction concerning coffee, “And not to overstep, but you  _ did _ have an iced vanilla americano the other night at  _ Dunkin’ _ , if I do recall  _ correctly _ .”

He seemed to recall, and fondly you guessed, from the slight curl of his lips and the softened expression he bore, “I guess I did.” He took a small sip, as if to test the integrity of the extended olive branch, “I was being polite.”

Charlie's fingers tapped the edges of his cup, your smile turning to that of a smirk, “So you admit that I’m right?”

He gave the ghost of a shrug, “Hmm, appears so.  _ Don’t _ get used to it.” 

Charlie set the cup next to his notes before pushing his hair back once again and picking up his pen. He’d started to drone on about the notes he’d written, asked you to pull out yours from before the lunch call and had soon fallen into the web of fascination he’d held for this show. He allowed for your input, encouraged it even, ending in scribbles of notes and diagrams over the both of your pages, a mutual trust reforming his preconceived disinclination toward your earlier remark. It even started to lose its negative potency over his mindset. It sat fading in the back of his mind with each exchange of notes and creative concepts.

A wildcard indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! thank you so much for your patience and being flexible with my chaotic upload schedule. i got caught in a huge wave of writers block followed by finals and just some personal things i needed to work out. i passed my finals with flying colors and turned that relief into this chapter, this very very long chapter. i started seriously outlining the next 3 chapters so hopefully i'll at the very least have a working draft of one more before my winter break is up. as always, i hope you enjoyed it and you can always find me (very active) on twitter @AnaArchived. i appreciate you all so very much! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for reading and for the support on my first ever fic! You can find me on Wattpad and Twitter @AnaArchived :)) Feel free to message and add me, ask questions or just interact!


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